


Morning Sickness

by smidget25



Series: Family [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Biology Inaccuracies, Kink Meme, M/M, Mpreg, What Was I Thinking?, bb Legolas, birth scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3137372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smidget25/pseuds/smidget25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a diplomatic meeting in Erebor, the dwarves can tell something is off with Thranduil, he's not the usual haughty jerk, instead he looks a bit worn and tired and just plain sad. Then, out of nowhere, Thranduil cries out in pain and collapses. He's rushed to the healers where everyone is stunned to find out that the Elven King is in labour...</p><p>Based on this prompt in Hobbit Kink Meme: hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=20626175</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Greetings

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt in Hobbit Kink Meme: hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=20626175
> 
> Canon has been completely disregarded. I’m very sorry, J.R.R. Tolkien. 
> 
> And I wouldn’t question the biology either.

To say Thorin was dreading the arrival of King Thranduil would be an understatement. 

He liked to believe he was a spirited and courageous king, but the sight of long silver hair filled him with unease. Since the Battle of the Five Armies, the peace – and the reluctant alliance that had accompanied it – had been uneasy, filled with frosty letters and increasingly fearful messengers. He had not seen the Elvenking since the battle, after he had retreated into his enchanted forest, and for that he was glad; rebuilding a kingdom was difficult enough without worrying about external politics. 

Unfortunately he could not remain in hiding forever. Erebor had once been a kingdom flush with trade, and Balin was eager to recreate its former glory. Apparently that meant visitors, envoys from all kingdoms, and hosting feasts for elven lords – or so Bilbo told him, anyway. 

Thorin hated being a king, sometimes. 

He was stood, upon the dais of his Throne Room, stomach turning, as he caught a familiar glimpse of silver hair in the distance, making its way slowly towards them. 

Balin and Bilbo were stood at his side, waiting to greet the elven delegation, and to ensure he did not say (or do) anything inappropriate. He was tempted to check whether attacking the Elvenking with his sword counted as 'inappropriate', but he did not think Bilbo would find his murderous thoughts amusing – not so soon after their hard-won truce. 

So instead, to distract himself, he drew up his chest and squared his shoulders, fighting against the constrictions of his heavy and embellished clothing. Balin had insisted he wore his formal wear, as a sign of respect, and Thorin had insisted he wear his sword, as a sign that he was armed and very dangerous. A cloak and crown seemed to be a pointless gesture to Thorin – if the Battle of Five Armies had failed to earn Thranduil's respect, he doubted his elaborate attire would do it. Particularly not when Bilbo was stood behind him, dressed as a shoeless green-grocer. 

The last time he had seen the Elvenking was after the battle, looking fierce and terrifying with bloodlust, teeth bared and watery hair streaming behind him. Thorin remembered him as a deadly warrior, full of lightning speed and compact strength. However, as he drew close beneath them, cloaked heavily in green, Thorin jolted, wondering whether his memories of that haunted face had been truthful. The Elvenking looked _different._

It wasn’t any significant change, but for an elf – destined to remain youthful and unchanged forever, like a magnificent statue – the difference was decidedly odd. 

He had the same long hair, which looked glossy and immaculate, framed by a flowery crown – one Thorin had not seen before, entwined with yellow primrose and a single purple peony. His eyes were their usual sharp, glittering blue, looking upon Thorin with expected indifference. But his face was softer than Thorin remembered, no longer harsh, sharp lines, but fuller, rounder, and glowing. The dwarf had never seen Thranduil’s pale skin coloured before – even the Battle of the Five Armies had failed to raise a flush. 

“My Lord Thranduil,” Thorin greeted, trying not to sound as hostile as he felt. “Welcome to Erebor.” 

He had already informed Balin, on no uncertain terms, that he would not bow – not to the king who had let Erebor burn – and so he merely nodded his head in acknowledgement. 

He expected Thranduil to comment on the slight, but although his expression tightened, he said nothing. He tilted his golden head in response, and Thorin realised he looked drawn – pinched with exhaustion. “The pleasure is mine, King Under the Mountain,” he drawled, barely sparing a glance at Balin, although he did look upon Bilbo with something that might have resembled interest. 

Gritting his teeth at such a plainly unfeeling response (because he had promised his friends he would get through introductions, at least, without starting another war), Thorin tried again: “I trust you had a pleasant journey? That your road was a safe one?”

“Yes, thank you,” Thranduil replied, in flinted tones. It sounded as though courtesy was costing him great effort. “If you will excuse me, I am weary from traveling, I wish to retire.”

Thorin and Balin exchanged a disbelieving glance; could Thranduil not even summon enough effort to finish the pleasantries?

With a poorly disguised sneer, he opened his mouth to reply – with what, he didn’t know, but it wasn’t going to be particularly flattering – when Bilbo elbowed him pointedly in his gut. 

Right. Of course. Diplomacy. 

He cleared his throat and waved a hand, beckoning to his servants. “Of course,” he said gruffly. “Allow my servants to show you and your party to your bedchambers. We hold a feast in your honour this evening, I trust you will be well rested by then.”

Thranduil gave him a look that suggested he would rather chop off his own arm and eat it than attend a dwarven feast, but he said nothing. With a small nod of thanks, he turned and signalled his attendants, who were hovering rather close behind him, pale and indistinct as ghosts. 

Thorin watched with wary eyes as he was escorted towards his chambers, his party trailing behind, at an unusually languid pace; even his walk was different. Thorin knew Thranduil’s long, effortless strides well, from his imprisonment in Mirkwood, and could not help but be bemused by the Elvenking’s new ungainly shuffle. 

“Well that went as well as can be expected,” Balin breathed, as soon as he was out of earshot. 

If he had been paying more attention, Thorin might have felt more insulted by Balin’s lack of faith in his diplomatic abilities (he hadn’t attempted to assault the Elvenking, after all, which was undoubtedly progress). Fortunately, he was too busy staring at the place Thranduil had disappeared, his golden hair glinting in the firelight. 

“He looked… strange,” he noted, arms crossed. “Is he ill? Injured?” 

Surprisingly, the thought was accompanied by only a small twist of satisfaction. He supposed he aught to forget the destruction of Erebor and Thranduil’s part in its downfall, as Bilbo kept imploring to him. But forgiveness was easier said than done, and the Elvenking’s utter defiance and complete lack of anything resembling remorse made things difficult for him. 

“He’s not ill,” replied Bilbo, with an inexplicable certainty. He glanced at his companions with a knowing cock of his brow, rocking back on the balls of his feet. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” 

Upon Thorin and Balin’s collective look of incomprehension, Bilbo let out an exasperated sigh. 

“Don’t look at me, you can figure it out yourselves,” he declared, in the tone of the long suffering. 

Thorin intended to do just that. 

+++

As it turned out later that evening, neither Thorin nor Balin had to ‘figure it out’ – the reason became almost frighteningly obvious. 

The feast was held in the Great Hall, a stone fortress with marble arches spanning across the ceiling, lit with hundreds of flaming torches that cast merry shadows against the walls. Like any dwarven feast, it was filled with meats, beer, and wine. 

Although still early, Fili and Kili were already singing to each other in slurred voices, bumping goblets, and spilling wine, as Bombur fought valiantly through his third block of Hobbiton cheese. 

Thorin sat at the head of the table, with a spare seat for Thranduil beside him. He had not seen or heard from the Elvenking since their exchange earlier that day, and he was not looking forward to sharing the whole evening with him. Luckily, Bilbo was sitting beside him, nattering about house plants, while Thorin downed beer and pretended to be listening.

He was already on his third tankard (for courage, although he would never admit it), when the servants at last signalled Thranduil’s arrival. 

As Bilbo had suggested, Thorin got to his feet (with only a glimmer of reluctance) to greet his honoured guest. Only as soon as he spotted the Elvenking, heading towards him, chin jutted towards the ceiling, he felt any attempt at words sink through the floor. 

Thranduil had shed his earlier cloak, and was wearing a relatively simple deep green robe, as light as air and flowing at his feet. His face was strangely terse, as he took the bustling party of dwarves, but otherwise no different than it had been earlier that day. It was his stomach that had caught Thorin’s attention. 

Instead of the once smooth lines of chest and torso, there was a belly bump – a bump so large his robes had been adjusted around it to accommodate for its enormous girth. 

Thorin opened his mouth to address him, but only managed, an embarrassingly choked, “King Thranduil… you’re -” 

“Pregnant,” Thranduil filled in, once Thorin’s words had failed him. He raised his heavy brows. “Yes, your observational skills are as keen as ever, King Under the Mountain.” 

Thorin opened his mouth to protest, but he seemed to have lost his ability to speak. He could only stare, slaw-jawed, at the round bump protruding from the Elvenking’s belly. No wonder the Elvenking had looked fuller - there seemed to be a fully-grown babe in there. 

“Congratulations,” chimed Bilbo, when Thorin didn’t seem inclined to say anything.

Thranduil glanced towards the hobbit in surprise, and his lips quirked slightly – it was almost a smile. “Thank you,” he replied. It was the most sincere comment Thorin had ever heard from him. 

Jerking his head in defiance at the now blatant stares – from both Thorin and the rest of the attendees – Thranduil attempted to seat himself, feigning unconcern, as though he couldn’t feel everyone’s eyes upon him, both fascinated and judgmental. Fumbling, Thorin unconsciously moved to pull out his chair. His wits had long since deserted him, and he was reacting purely on instinct. He didn’t know much about politics, admittedly, but he couldn’t have a pregnant elven leader collapsing at his feast. 

Thranduil shot him a look of great astonishment, but took the offered seat, settling down with a sigh. “Thank you,” he said again, and Thorin wondered whether pregnancy had addled his mind. His hands went immediately to his bump, without thought, his touch soft, soothing, and tender. “The baby has been very active today.” 

“How long do you have to go?” asked Bilbo curiously. 

Thranduil looked grateful for Bilbo’s friendly interest, if not a little wary. “Until the next full moon, perhaps,” he replied, beckoning, and his attendants instantly filled his goblet – not with rivulets of wine, as Thorin would expect – but with water. It was a strange sight indeed. 

Thorin was still stuck somewhere between shock and alarm. He knew of rumours that elves – of all sexes – could experience childbirth, but he had never seen or heard it in practise. He had assumed it was hearsay, a legend based on whimsical tales and little evidence, but now the proof was sat before him. He just didn’t quite believe his eyes. 

How could the Elvenking possibly be pregnant? He had heard no whisperings of a child from either messengers or scouts. As far as he was aware, the Elvenking did not even have a lover, let alone a spouse. Surely the Lord Thranduil, Son of Orephor, King of Mirkland, would not have a child out of wedlock; would the babe even be eligible for the throne? 

“Who’s the father then?” Thorin blurted, before his mind could engage itself. He saw Bilbo cringe out the corner of his eye, and supposed that it might not have been the most tactful of questions. Still, if it came to a fight, he was pretty sure he could best an expectant Thranduil, who looked as though he could barely dress himself in the morning, let alone wield a sword. 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” the Elvenking snapped, eyes glinting with a flash of their former flame. He calmed, and looked away with a sigh, conceding, in a softer (and sadder) tone, “It’s irrelevant anyway.”

It might have been a signal to finish the conversation. But Thorin was not done. 

“Why?” Thorin persisted. He was thankful Balin couldn’t hear him, now that he’d abandoned what little tact he possessed. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to know. Anything that made the icy Elvenking look so forlorn was worthy of note. 

He didn’t think for one moment that Thranduil was going to answer. The elf looked away, eyes distant and unseeing, head lowered – a stance so unusual that it made Thorin blink slightly in bemusement. 

“He doesn’t want to be involved,” the Elvenking confessed, after a long pause. His hand clenched, where it was fisting the robes concealing his bump, knuckles white with strain – he looked as though he was fighting hard to maintain his mask of indifference. Up close, he looked tired; under the rosiness of softened cheeks, his skin was dark, heavy beneath his eyes. 

Thorin felt something like pity stir in his chest. And not just pity: anger. Anger, not at the Elvenking, but at the despicable creature who would forsake his own kin. His dislike for Thranduil aside, it was lower than low to desert someone before childbirth. 

“I’m sorry,” said Bilbo. 

Thranduil attempted a smile, although it was more of a grimace. 

“Then he’s an unworthy father," said Thorin, with feeling, "to abandon an innocent babe."

Thranduil turned to look at him in surprise. Thorin jerked, taken aback by the emotions swirling in his eyes: anger, sadness and longing.


	2. Invitations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might be able to tell, I am deviating from the prompt slightly - I thought it would be too unrealistic for nobody to realise he was pregnant before he gave birth, so in this fic they are all aware.

“You asked him who the father was?” exclaimed Balin, the next morning, in his most exasperated tone. It was a tone reserved only for when Thorin was being particularly thick-headed – and unfortunately, used regularly. “You’re lucky to still have your head, laddie.”

Thorin peered up at him from behind a pile of parchment he had been pointedly ignoring (up until the point Bilbo and Balin had arrived at his door, under the guise of ‘important business’) and attempted to look as though he was thoroughly engrossed. Even the plight of Bard the Bowman and the people of Laketown was more enlightening than what Balin and Bilbo had to say, he was sure. 

“Even the Elvenking wouldn’t decapitate me in my own halls,” he said, with more confidence than he felt. He dipped his quill in his inkwell, and began writing back to Bard the Bowman’s letter with increasingly illegible scrawl. 

“You should apologise,” said Balin. 

Thorin scoffed. “Apologise?” he echoed, with a throaty laugh. He felt bad for the babe, to be abandoned before birth, but it was hardly anything to do with him. “It’s not my fault the Elvenking has such terrible taste in bed partners.” 

“Please Thorin,” implored Bilbo, with the same unblinking stare, and Thorin was beginning to suspect he’d been cornered. That was the problem with underground chambers; there were no windows for quick escape. “He’s pregnant, anxious and alone.” 

One out of three wasn’t bad. Thorin didn’t know what delusional land Bilbo lived in, where Thranduil was all fluffy and helpless, but Thranduil did not strike him as either anxious or alone – although ‘pregnant’ was hard to deny. 

“Good,” said Thorin, spitefully. Dripping red wax onto a letter to Bard the Bowman, he stamped his crest with more force than strictly necessary. He was pretty sure the writing was completely incomprehensible. 

“You don’t mean that,” said Balin, even though Thorin _did._

“Go and apologise for being so insensitive,” ordered Bilbo, in a way that suggested Thorin did not have any choice in the matter. The hobbit was surprisingly scary for such a small and defenceless creature. “You’re supposed to be building bridges. You’re allies now.” 

Thorin sighed in defeat. 

What was the point of being king if he couldn’t even do what he wanted all the time? 

+++

Thorin sent a messenger to Thranduil’s quarters later that day, asking to meet the Elvenking in private, so he could attempt an apology; the last thing he wanted was an audience to his humiliation. 

They were due a meeting anyway, to discuss trade and alliance before Thranduil departed back to Mirkwood, and so Thorin was quietly confident the elf would accept the invitation. Their business had, after all, been the purpose of his trip. 

He was therefore surprised, confused, and angry when the messenger returned some time later, not with acceptance, as expected, but with a refusal – and some excuse that the Elvenking was feeling too unwell for business meetings. How could the Elvenking still slight him in his own kingdom? Was it because of his questions at the feast? Although the Elvenking had been taken aback by his probing, perhaps a little angry at his impertinence, he had still answered the questions. It might have even passed for a civil conversation. 

Frustrated that his apology had been thwarted, and wondering why he even bothering in the first place (bloody Bilbo), Thorin marched down to Thranduil’s chambers – no longer to apologise – but to tell Thranduil exactly what he thought of his rudeness. 

He was met by an elf at the entrance to Thranduil’s chambers. 

It was a she-elf, the only one Thorin had seen in Thranduil’s company, with twin knives strapped to her hips and fiery red hair curling to her waist. She was the elf Kili had been eyeing when he thought nobody was looking. _Tauriel._

“Good afternoon, King Under the Mountain,” she greeted, with a swift bow. 

“I would like to see the Elvenking,” Thorin announced. 

“I’m afraid my Lord Thranduil is indisposed at the moment,” said the elf, in a forcefully pleasant tone. Her hands were twitching by her sides, close to her blades. Thorin wondered why he did not bring weapons himself, or perhaps his own guard - not that he'd thought they'd be needed, in his own kingdom. “He is not up to seeing visitors.”

“He is when the visitor rules this mountain,” said Thorin, pointedly. 

The guard tilted her head, challenging, and for one brief moment Thorin thought she might disobey him. But then she moved, sliding through the door to announce Thorin’s presence to the Elvenking.

When he entered, the Elvenking was dragging himself to his feet from his place by the fire – struggling for a moment against the weight of his belly. The elven guard, Tauriel, had retrieved him a burgundy robe, but as he wriggled into it, it became increasingly evident it would no longer close at the front. Beneath it he wore nothing but a sheer, white gown, bellowing over his stomach to the floor. Through it, Thorin could see the shapes of long, lean legs, the indents of sharp collarbones, and of course, the swell of the baby. 

“King Under the Mountain,” Thranduil greeted, as Thorin swept into the room and Tauriel swept out of it. He hardly looked overjoyed to see the dwarf, but he lacked the open hostility of the day before – that was progress, at least. Bilbo would be proud. 

“Nice gown,” Thorin commented idly, by way of greeting – deceptively innocent, but lips twitching, immediately unravelling any headway he’d made the day before. He just couldn’t help himself; it wasn’t often he had the upper hand on the Elvenking. 

Thranduil flushed in rage – or perhaps even embarrassment – and clutched his robe around the flourishing bump; the material strained at the unaccustomed stretch. “Well I was hardly expecting company,” he snapped. He anger melted quickly however, and he confessed, in a lower, and bitter tone, “Nothing fits me anymore.” 

Surprised at the honesty of the words, Thorin mellowed. The Elvenking’s expression was blank, but his face was waxy, drawn, and tired; despite his angry words, Thorin did not desire to inflict further pain on someone who was obviously already suffering. What was he thinking, attempting to confront someone so heavily pregnant? 

When he had wished revenge upon Thranduil during all his years in exile, abandoned with a baby was not what he’d envisioned. It had been easy, safe, to hate the Elvenking when he stood tall in silver armour, wielding a blade with deadly force, straight-backed and snarling. It was quite another to summon hate towards him when he stood bare-footed, hunched over the swell of his stomach, and looking almost ghostly in the dim light. 

Thorin let out a sigh of defeat. “I wanted to apologise for yesterday,” he said grudgingly, staring off to a point somewhere left of the elf’s pointy ear. 

Thranduil raised his eyebrows, arms crossed, and waited expectantly. 

Trying hard to contain a glare, Thorin continued: “It was pointed out to me that perhaps pressing about the elfling’s father was a little insensitive.” 

The Elvenking rolled his eyes, a comfortingly familiar expression, but no less maddening. “Perhaps,” he agreed, brushing his golden curtain of hair off a shoulder. For the first time, it looked unkempt, damp with sweat and curling slightly behind pointed ears. “But I do not expect you really care. If anything, you enjoyed watching me suffer.” 

Thranduil’s eyes slipped away at that, towards the fire, where he gazed at it unseeingly. The light of the flames was warm across his face, highlighting patches of moisture upon brow and lip. Although wane, the pregnancy had filled out his features pleasantly – he no longer looked quite as severe. 

“I do not enjoy watching anyone suffer – especially innocent children,” replied Thorin. That was the truth, at least. He could hardly blame an unborn babe for Thranduil’s failings. 

The elf scoffed disbelievingly. “Do not take me for a fool,” he snapped. “The Halfling sent you here to apologise, you would not have come otherwise.”

Thorin hoped mind reading was not one of Thranduil’s elven powers. He opened his mouth to protest, deemed it useless and closed it again. 

“If you despise me, then so be it, I do not care. Just don’t pretend otherwise,” Thranduil informed him, in a cool tone. He was still looking at the fire, as though detached from the conversation, and added, resentfully, “I’ve had enough of lies.” 

“I am not a liar,” said Thorin. 

Somehow, he did not think Thranduil had been referring to him. 

“No, I suppose you’re not,” the Elvenking admitted, after a thoughtful pause. He’d obviously remembered the events during Thorin’s ‘visit’ to Mirkwood – when the dwarf had told him exactly what he thought of him, even at the price of his own freedom. He turned back to Thorin then, and smirked, face contorting at the memory – struggling between amusement and annoyance. It wasn’t a happy expression, but it brightened his otherwise colourless features, if only for a moment. 

“If we are to abandon all pretences, then no, I don’t like you,” Thorin conceded, with a careless shrug, “But I have nothing against the child. I wish it nothing but happiness.” 

Thranduil said nothing more a moment. He did not look startled or offended by Thorin’s words, only considering. It was only when Thorin was starting to feel uncomfortable in the silence – assuming the Elvenking was now ignoring him – that Thranduil muttered, “He.” 

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a he,” Thranduil echoed, dropping his gaze back to his stomach, as though there was nobody else in the room. He looked fond as he stroked the bump, his eyes softened – and Thorin started, something strange twisting in his chest as he gazed upon him. 

“How do you know?” he asked, with genuine curiosity. 

Thranduil’s lips quirked into a gentle smile – although it was not directed at the dwarf – and replied, “I can feel it.” 

He was not so much as looking at Thorin; the child had captured his full attention. 

Feeling increasingly awkward in what was obviously a private moment, Thorin decided to take his leave; he turned, just about to make for the door, when Thranduil let out a groan – soft and pained. His face was twisting, a flush rising quickly upon his cheeks, and he staggered slightly – towards the basin at the edge of his chambers. Although he still moved quickly, he lacked some of his usual effortless grace. 

“My Lord?” Thorin cried, hurrying to his side. If the Elvenking died in his halls – with child, no less – he was going to have some serious explaining to do to Bilbo. 

Thranduil opened his mouth to reply, bent over the basin, but only retched instead, attempting to push back his waterfall of hair as it drifted into the bowl. His face was now shining with sweat as he spluttered, his body convulsing and eyelashes fluttering; with his mask stripped away, he looked utterly miserable. 

Thorin hovered uncertainly for a moment, and said, “You need to see a healer – I will summon your guard.”

“No, no,” Thranduil coughed, reaching out blindly for Thorin’s robes and clenching the material in whitened fists. Thorin froze. “There’s no need. It’s normal for a pregnancy – morning sickness. Sometimes I get it all day.”

Thorin blinked. 

“Do not worry yourself, King Under the Mountain,” said Thranduil, before heaving violently. He let go of Thorin’s robe (although the dwarf only moved closer), brushed his golden hair off his reddened face, and closed his eyes. “Leave me.” 

“I can’t leave you alone like this!” Thorin hissed. Because regardless of what had happened between them, leaving the Elvenking alone to die was generally not acceptable in noble circles. 

With reluctance, he placed a warm hand on Thranduil’s back, expecting a rebuff – but the elf only slumped, pressing his spine into Thorin’s hand. Thorin stared at the place they were touching, disgusted with himself for even deigning to touch the elf who had watched Erebor burn, and confused by the warmth that was spreading to his face. He was glad the Elvenking was too busy retching to look at him. 

“The morning sickness – it’s been worse, since I’ve been here,” Thranduil explained, spluttering only slightly – seemingly oblivious to Thorin’s bewilderment. He rubbed at his bump. “I don’t think he likes it underground.” 

“You’re lucky you’re pregnant,” Thorin said conversationally – once Thranduil’s retches were weakening and his body was slumped sideways in exhaustion. “I don’t take people refusing my meeting invitations lightly.” 

Thranduil laughed lightly into the brace of his arms around the basin, and muttered, “Apologies!” in a way that was only faintly sarcastic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated, thank you :)


	3. Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically Thorin and Thranduil go on a day trip, to be honest.

The next day, Thorin was stood at the base of Erebor, surrounded by stable boys and a carefully selected company, awaiting the arrival of the Elvenking. 

After their almost pleasant discussion the day before, Thorin felt sure the Elvenking would not reject his invitation for a ride. Thranduil had mentioned the babe’s dislike for the underground, and so Thorin would humour him – if open air meant improving Thranduil’s mood, and in turn his receptiveness to Thorin’s suggestions, then the dwarf was more than happy to oblige. It was excuse for him, as well, to enjoy a day of freedom without any duties as king. 

Fili and Kili, at his insistence, were also to accompany them – to learn all they could about politics. Already they were trotting back and forth on their ponies, as they waited, challenging each other to races. From the cries of victory, Thorin could only assume Kili was winning.

Sharing an amused and slightly exasperated glance with Bilbo, Thorin looked up to find Thranduil, and his she-elf guard, making their way towards him. Thorin felt a twist of satisfaction that the Elvenking had showed – it meant that progress had been made, at last.

Thranduil looked much better than he had the day before, although still unnaturally pale. His hair was its usual golden river down his back, plaited at the front to keep wayward strands from his face, and bereft of a crown. He was wearing a robe in muted gold, heavily embroidered, which had been adjusted to accommodate the belly; even so, the buttons were beginning to strain, and Thorin suspected it wouldn’t be long before it needed to be taken out again. 

“King Under the Mountain,” said Thranduil, with a ghost of a smile and the tilt of a head. 

“King Thranduil,” Thorin replied in turn, with the same faux politeness, “You got my invitation?”

“Evidently,” Thranduil deadpanned, with a cock of the brow. “I did not think it wise to refuse your invitation again.” 

“No,” Thorin agreed, “I might have taken insult at being rejected twice in two days.” 

Thranduil smirked, an expression of old, and replied, “It’s a regular occurrence, I’m sure.” 

Before Thorin could become too aggravated, Bilbo and Balin appeared from behind him – to check he wasn’t grievously insulting elven lords, probably. He should make it Bilbo’s official title. 

“My Lord Thranduil,” Balin said, with a warm smile and bow. “Thorin tells us you were unwell yesterday. How are you feeling today?”

“Much better, thank you,” replied Thranduil politely, although he looked slightly discomfited by the questioning. Perhaps he did not like the thought of people knowing how vulnerable he had been. It was an image Thorin was not likely to forget. “It comes and goes.” 

“Thorin thought that you might want to get some fresh air to help with the sickness,” said Bilbo, evidently not receiving Thorin’s telepathic messages to not mention his involvement. “Do you wish to join us for a ride?”

Thranduil looked over at Thorin in surprise (as Thorin pretended to be looking at his pony), taken aback by the unexpected gesture, and replied, “I would like that. Although I can’t ride much these days – it upsets the baby.”

“We’ll take things slow,” promised Bilbo with an encouraging smile. Thorin thought Thranduil might turn his nose up at the platitudes, but he looked at Bilbo curiously, as though puzzled by such a creature (attempting to find deception and finding none), and then nodded his head in thanks. 

Once the stable boys had finished setting everything up for their journey, the party all mounted their horses and ponies. Thranduil, surprisingly, managed to settle himself astride his elk with only minor difficulty – waving away his attendants with an impatient hand. Tauriel pursed her lips at his stubbornness, but said nothing, mounting her own horse and hovering close behind him. 

Kili was watching her with an embarrassing intensity – his eyes alight with interest. Thorin groaned. 

The ride out into the daylight was a pleasant one. The day was cool, although cloudless, the sun following their path towards Mirkwood. It reminded Thorin of his journey to reclaim his homeland. He loved Erebor – loved having a place he could finally call home – but he missed the open air sometimes, and the adventure that had come with his journeys. 

He enjoyed the feel of fresh air upon his face in silence, for a long while, relishing every moment, until Thranduil drew up beside him.

Thorin was just about to engage Thranduil in conversation (although about what, he had no idea), when Fili and Kili trotted up to join them. 

“These are my nephews,” Thorin introduced, glad for a conversation starter, “Fili and Kili.” 

Thranduil glanced at them curiously out the corner of his eye, and nodded his head in acknowledgement. 

“You imprisoned us in Mirkwood, in case you’ve forgotten,” said Kili. His tone was careless, but his eyes sharp. Thorin could see Balin (Bilbo alongside him), drifting behind them, his face contorted in exasperation. 

Thranduil did not rise to the bait, just as Thorin knew he wouldn’t. His voice was cool as he replied, “I haven’t.”

“So you’re pregnant?” asked Fili immediately, in pleasant tones, as though they were discussing the weather. 

Thranduil looked at him suspiciously, wary of a trick. It was indeed a pointless question – Thranduil was quite evidently pregnant. Thorin was sure his poor elk could testify to that.

“Thorin said it’s a boy,” Fili continued on with gusto, when Thranduil remained stonily silent. “What are you going to call him?” 

“I think Kili is a good, strong name,” suggested Kili with a grin. 

Thranduil blinked at him bewilderedly. 

“Leave him alone, laddies,” called Balin, saving Thranduil from having to produce a response; the Elvenking looked relieved to have a respite from questioning. “Apologies, My Lord.” 

“No. You don’t need to apologise,” said the Elvenking, brow furrowing. He looked steadily at the landscape, thoughtful, without so much as glancing at the rest of them. “It’s just strange for people to ask me these questions. I haven’t decided yet.” 

That seemed to be a cue for Fili and Kili to fall silent. They said nothing after that, showing great restraint Thorin didn’t think them capable of, until the party approached the outskirts of a forest: Mirkwood. 

It looked different than Thorin remembered it, its trees lush and full – despite its approach to the last days of autumn. The leaves were a variety of green and gold, a colour scheme Thorin associated so closely with the Elvenking. Upon looking at the trees, Thranduil’s eyes glittered and his lip twitched – he looked happy to be home, if only for the moment.

They set up camp at the base of the trees, to rest before their journey back to Erebor, and to ensure all animals were fed and watered. 

It was then that Thranduil announced, already striding off into the shelter of the canopy, “I am going to take a walk through my forest.”

After a pointed nudge from Balin, Thorin stepped forward and grumbled, “I’ll accompany you, we have much to discuss.” 

Thranduil looked at him for a long moment, and Thorin thought he might refuse, before conceding: “As you wish.” 

Tauriel immediately leapt to her king's assistance. “I will come with you, My Lord,” she said, staring at Thorin with nothing less than blatant distrust. Thorin was impressed by her protectiveness – Thranduil needed someone to look out for his (and his baby’s) best interests, after all – and insulted by her defiance. He was still a king, and did not take kindly to insolence. 

“I’m perfectly capable of protecting the Elvenking,” he replied sharply, offended that she was questioning his ability. 

“Yes, but _would_ you protect him?” she challenged. 

Thorin was even more offended. Now she was questioning his integrity! “He’s with child; what do you think I’m going to do?” he snapped. “Drown him in a river?”

It was intended to be a rhetorical question. But Tauriel opened her mouth to reply – probably to confirm that she did indeed think him capable of drowning the Elvenking in a river – before Thranduil exclaimed, in a familiarly commanding tone, “ _Enough!_ ” 

Both Tauriel and Thorin fell silent. “I have no need for your protection, Tauriel,” said the Elvenking, waving off her attempt at argument. “We will not stray far from camp.” He looked at Thorin then, challenging, and added, “King Thorin would not be so foolish as to attempt to drown me in a river.”

Thorin had to admit, if he did want to murder the Elvenking (which he’d dreamed of, many times), drowning would not be the method of choice. The Elvenking was a great warrior; he deserved a swift death by the steel of a sword. He did not inform Tauriel of his thoughts, however, fearing it would probably not help his cause. 

Feeling rather smug that he’d won the argument – in a way that was probably beneath a king – Thorin and Thranduil set out along an elven path on foot, leaving Tauriel (and the rest of the party) glaring behind them. 

Thorin, seizing the opportunity, pressed his thoughts on the fledging Mirkwood and Erebor alliance, now that he could talk to the Elvenking without meddling advisors (or Balin, breathing down his neck). Thranduil’s responses, although affirmative, were mostly brief – his mind was elsewhere. 

His eyes were flickering through the trees, admiring the fluttering of wildlife and faint dancing of flowers. It was peaceful – nothing like Thorin remembered it, full of life, of sounds and bird song. 

“A stream…” exclaimed Thranduil, once they had descended deeper into the undergrowth. With something that might have been excitement, he pointed to a river meandering through the trees. The water was green and blue, glittering in the flashes of sunlight peaking through tree branches. Thranduil smiled, padding towards it, muttering, “At last, something big enough for me to bathe in.” 

Thorin blinked at his back, and croaked, “You’re going to bathe? Right now?” 

“I assure you the river is quite safe. The water is fresh and cool.” 

Thorin looked at it doubtfully. It didn’t _look_ dangerous, but Mirkwood was infamous for its magic and illusions; Thorin had fallen foul to them before. “It’s full of enchantments,” he pointed out. 

“Yes, my own enchantments,” said Thranduil, slipping off his boots and padding into the shallow water. “I’m hardly going to bewitch myself.” 

Thorin opened his mouth to argue, but could think of nothing more to say. The Elvenking could do whatever he wished in his own kingdom, he supposed. Although taking the Elvenking for a swim was not going to convince Tauriel that he did not intend to drown him. 

Thranduil, on the other hand, did not seem particularly worried by Thorin’s presence. He stripped off his robes without hesitation or embarrassment, unbuttoning the sides and slipping the golden silk off his shoulders. Thorin watched him, for a brief moment, his mouth hanging open, as translucent flesh was revealed – he saw the flash of nipple, long plains of unblemished back, and the white swell of the baby. Feeling his cheeks flame in an emotion he could not identify, Thorin jerked his head away and stared resolutely at the floor. It wasn’t as though he was easily discomfited, but the Elvenking was still the Elvenking – and that child growing in his belly was certainly not his own. 

“Will you not join me?” said the elf, and Thorin felt sure that Thranduil sensed his unease and was merely taunting him. When he glanced up, however, Thranduil was sitting, quite innocently, in the depths of the river, eyes closed, dipping his head in the water. When he raised it again, rivulets of water were running down his face, dripping from his eyelashes, and the moisture had darkened his golden hair. 

“I – uh – prefer to bathe indoors,” said Thorin, which was perhaps the thinnest excuse ever uttered, in all of Middle-Earth’s many ages, but all he could conjure at such short notice. He did not usually count himself a coward, but shedding his clothes (and armour) with an old enemy was a line he could not cross. 

Thranduil said nothing after that, seemingly unconcerned with Thorin’s refusal, and continued washing himself quite peacefully. He looked to be enjoying the brief moment of relaxation, a respite from his duties, and was humming an elven song Thorin did not recognise under his breath distractedly. 

Once he was finished, sopping wet and pink in the face, Thranduil drifted his way back over to Thorin, navigating his belly through the water. 

“Here, let me help,” said Thorin, without thinking, as Thranduil ascended the slippery riverbank, attempting to look over his stomach and down at his feet. 

“I don’t need help,” the Elvenking insisted sharply, although he took Thorin’s offered hand regardless, allowing the dwarf to pull him back to solid earth. His hand was damp, but smooth and slender, like the rest of him – baby aside, of course.

Thorin, determinedly staring up at Thranduil’s face, and not anywhere lower, grabbed the discarded robe and settled it back on the Elevenking’s shoulders. Thandruil nodded in thanks, and redressed, treating Thorin to another glimpse of long legs and rounded mid-section. 

Thorin couldn’t help but note that whoever had deserted father and babe had missed out on such poignant moments. How could they not want any part in the growth of their own child? If it were his, Thorin would move mountain and earth to protect it. 

“Thank you, for suggesting this trip,” Thranduil said, once he was done and Thorin could look at him safely again. He looked much happier – less pale and faintly glowing. “I think the elfling prefers the outdoors. I’ve been sick in Erebor, but he seems to be happier now – he’s kicking.” 

“Kicking?” asked Thorin curiously, taking a cautious glance at the bump. He couldn’t see anything but robe. 

“Yes,” Thranduil said, and abandoning all pretence of kings, took Thorin’s hand and pressed it to the swell of his stomach. Thorin jerked back instinctively, because looking was one thing, and touching completely another, before he felt faint fluttering beneath the robe and skin. He froze. “Here. Do you feel it?”

Thorin croaked an affirmative. 

Once he had collected himself enough to form a coherent response, he said, “He’s an active little thing – he’s going to cause his father lots of trouble. Rather like Kili, I imagine.” 

Thranduil smiled – not a smirk or quirk of the lips – but a wide and genuine smile. The nearby trees were shedding for winter, and as Thorin drew away, a leaf floated down from a giant Oak arching high above them, and landed on the curve of Thranduil’s stomach. It was green, with curling corners tinged with gold. 

Thranduil looked down at it for a moment, reverent, before clasping it between two slender fingers. “I know what I’m going to call him,” he announced with a loud inhale. “Greenleaf. Legolas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed, as usual - any mistakes are mine.
> 
> This is later than I intended, sorry, I’ve had a busy week at work (I travelled to Bristol to Bournemouth to London and back again for various meetings and promptly fell asleep at 8pm yesterday evening), but this is longer than the previous ones!


	4. Bandits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hard going, let me tell you.

The sun was beginning to disappear into the mountains when Thorin decided it was time to head back to their party. 

He hated to disturb Thranduil, who looked happier than he’d ever seen him, dozing under the trees with his hand stroking his bump, the sunset casting a warm glow of his face and golden hair. He seemed to have abandoned his indifferent mask, and was ignoring Thorin entirely, as though he’d completely forgotten he was there. 

Unsure whether to feel complimented that Thranduil had lowered his guard around him, or insulted he had disregarded his presence, Thorin settled on a neutral, “We should head back.” 

Thranduil startled slightly, despite the softness of Thorin’s voice, and blinked up at him in confusion. “Why?” he asked, unable to completely disguise a note of disappointment. 

“The forest is dangerous at night,” explained Thorin, before realising Thranduil probably knew a lot more about it than he did. And that it probably wasn’t a good idea to insult the forest in his presence. 

“It’s not,” the Elvenking argued, with a dangerous cock of the brow. “It’s my forest.”

That was easy for him to say – he hadn’t been bewitched by the forest enchantments, lost in the woodland labyrinth for what felt like eternity, and then been attacked by giant spiders. In fact, the company’s visit and subsequent imprisonment by the elves had probably been the highlight of the whole Mirkwood adventure, which was saying something.

Thorin took in a couple of calming breaths, in order to stop himself from arguing on instinct, and said instead, “Regardless, the others will be worried. We should head back to camp.”

With a reluctant sigh, Thranduil jerked his head in what was probably agreement, and attempted to push himself to his feet. Thorin watched him struggle for a moment, suppressing a vindictive laugh, before reaching out a hand. Thranduil eyed it suspiciously, as though sensing Thorin’s amusement, but took it regardless. 

He must have been suffering from the ride, and walk, far more than he was letting on; he looked uneasy on his feet, hunched, as though his body were aching. 

They walked slowly, back towards the camp, Thorin allowing the Elvenking to set the pace without comment, watching him closely as he attempted to navigate over jagged rock and earth.

“Watch your step!” Thorin hissed, as they clambered up the soft slope of a hill – Thranduil slipping slightly on the uneven ground. It was quite obvious he could not see his own feet. Thorin would offer to lead, if it prevented Thranduil from breaking his neck (and Thorin being throttled to death by Tauriel), but he knew the Elvenking would never allow it. “If you fall, the she-elf will definitely blame it on me.” 

“Naturally,” Thranduil agreed idly – almost proud. He did not sound particularly concerned for Thorin’s safety. “She is fierce – especially since I became pregnant.” 

“Good. Good,” muttered Thorin, under his breath. “You should have someone to look out for yo – the baby.”

“We don’t need anyone,” said the Elvenking sharply, eyes glittering. “I’m all this elfling needs.” 

Thorin did not dare argue with that. Nor did he wish to. He had little doubt that the Elvenking would be a magnificent father to his son. Thranduil had many failings, but the utter devotion he was already showing his child had to be commended; Thorin imagined, if he had a babe of his own, that he would be no different. He and Thranduil had something in common, after all. 

It didn’t take long until they were approaching the outskirts of the forest. The trees were thinning, the wildlife becoming scarcer, and Thorin could no longer feel the strange fog of magic around them. 

Fresh air hit him in the face like a punch, and Thorin knew immediately they were passing beyond Thranduil’s borders. 

Spotting dim lights of what must have been the camp in the distance, Thorin made his way towards it – eager to get back before night had fallen – only to find Thranduil had stopped some way behind him, reluctant to leave the shadows of the trees. 

He was stood straight, coiled in unease, and Thorin could just about make out the sharp gleam of his eyes, flickering back and forth in restlessness. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, just as the crunch of grass and snapping of branches reached his ears. 

He froze. 

He knew his senses were not as sharp as Thranduil’s, but something was undeniably there. From the set of the Elvenking’s shoulders, he knew that it was not the sounds of harmless wildlife – no, whatever it was, it wasn’t friendly. 

“Thranduil,” he said softly, beckoning, hoping not to alert their guests that they were now aware of their presence. His fingers gripped at the handle of his sword. “Come towards me – slowly.” 

Thranduil, to his credit, did as asked without question. Unusually, he was unarmed, his hands clenching helplessly at his side, and the sight of it alone made Thorin uneasy. He drifted towards the dwarf with some of his usual grace, his feet padding silently on the grass. When the elf was safely behind him, his belly shielded behind Thorin's considerable bulk, the dwarf drew Orcrist with a whistle. 

Seemingly taking the sword’s unsheathing as cue to _attack_ , men burst forth from the undergrowth. 

There were more than a dozen – too many to fight alone – armed with crude weaponry, their faces dirty and their clothing bedraggled. 

They came from each side, boxing them in, as Thorin held Orcrist aloft in warning. 

It seemed to give them pause, at least. Bandits would not recognise two kings, but they knew by their clothing, and their steel, that they were creatures of value - creatures not to be harmed without question.

Some of the men were whispering, jostling, and wooting – drunk, with empty bottles clanking in filthy hands. Thorin felt, rather than saw, Thranduil’s snarl of disgust. 

“What do we have here, boys?” said the leader, a man of considerable height (although shorter than Thranduil) and little intellect. “An elf and a dwarf; a strange sight, indeed!”

Thorin ground his teeth, and called, “You better leave us and be on your way – our party is not far from here.” 

“That’s what they all say, dwarf!” said the leader, with a mocking laugh. Some of the men joined in, like a pack of hyenas, and Thorin hoped that their camp was nearby enough to hear it. 

The other men were looking at Thranduil, fascination and perhaps even wonder in their slackened expressions. Most had probably never seen an elf before. Thorin felt on edge at their lechery, a fire pooling in his gut.

“Look at the elf!” they hissed. “Is it a he or a she? Is it pregnant? Impossible!” 

Thranduil remained silent, strange enough in itself, not wishing to draw any further attention to himself or the baby – but his face was brewing like thunder, his eyes flinted, and Thorin knew he would not be able to contain himself for much longer.

“Are you one of the Mirkwood elves then, pretty?” called one of the men with a leer. He was redheaded and bulbous, hideous by any standards of Middle Earth.

Thorin raised his brows, pitying the man who had dared name the Elvenking pretty; Thranduil was not going to let it lie, that was for sure. Thorin was certain that someday, somewhere, the man was going to regret it. 

“In a manner of speaking,” hissed the Elvenking. His voice was icy, as ever, but his fingers were curled about his bump protectively. Thorin could sense his unease; he wanted to fight – no doubt still formidable, despite the pregnancy – but feared any action that might endanger the child. 

“Come on, hand over your valuables!” cried the leader, impatient now, and down to business. He cocked his sword, a rusty thing, dirty with dried blood – eying Orcrist with interest. Thorin felt his hackles rise. “The sword first, dwarf.” 

“You’ll have to come and take it from me,” hissed Thorin, before he could stop himself, his heart pounding erratically in his chest. 

For a brief moment, he forgot the pregnant elf sheltered behind him – and the babe endangered by his impulsiveness. It was only anger and rage and the thrill of the challenge. 

The leader sneered, and with a cock of his head, announced to his men: “ _Take it from him._ ” 

Thorin only had moment to realise his mistake before they were upon him. 

There was a clanking of swords as he swiped Orcrist at the two who had been brave – or drunk – enough to confront him. They leapt backwards, to avoid his strikes, but not before handing a couple of haphazard punches – to his jaw and arm. Thorin staggered slightly, overwhelmed by the sheer number of them, turning and slashing and hoping to hit some of the flailing limbs. 

There was a grunt, and a cry of pain, as his sword found its mark. It came away gleaming with blood, and two bodies crumpled, before more materialised to take their place. 

He slashed again, feeling high with the bloodlust of battle, before he caught a flash of fair hair out the corner of his eye. 

He had almost forgotten: _Thranduil_. 

The men who were not attacking him were attempting to corner the Elvenking. Their grins were smug, self-confident, as they came at him from either side. They seemed to have disregarded the elf as a threat – their biggest mistake. Thranduil was dangerous, no matter the circumstances.

Sure enough, as soon as they came close enough to touch him, Thranduil sprung into action, with all the speed and swiftness of a snake. Swollen stomach forgotten, he snatched at the wrist of the red-headed man who was advancing on him, bent it back in one smooth motion – smirking at the satisfying crack of bones – and disarmed him. 

The red-headed man let out a straggled cry of pain – brought to his knees – and could do nothing but blink bemusedly as the Elvenking impaled him with his own sword. 

“Am I pretty now, filth?” hissed the Elvenking, with a familiar satisfaction, and twisted the sword in deeper. 

Impressed, despite himself, but still anxious for the wellbeing of the child, Thorin brought his attention back to his own fight. He had defeated two more, but they just kept on coming, and Thorin cursed himself for his own stupidity. He had spoke without thinking _again_ , and now they were fighting for their lives in the wilderness. 

Balin and Bilbo were going to be so disappointed. 

The leader came at him then, jolting Thorin from his thoughts, and the dwarf realised immediately he was far more skilled than his men. His sword flashed like lightning in the darkness, their steel singing as they met in a flurry of movement, and Thorin began to edge backwards, away, as the other men pressed in on him from the sides. 

He was vaguely aware of Thranduil, slicing men with his stolen sword in the distance, still alive but so far away – and knew this was dangerous indeed.

The leader smiled, sickening, working his advantage and Thorin wondered with rising horror what would happen to Thranduil – _the baby_ – if he died. Would the Elvenking be able to defeat the remainder alone? Thorin found himself hoping that he would. 

He was pressed back, against the burrow of a tree, his shoulders pressed against bark, when there was a whistle, and one of the men slashing at his side toppled into the undergrowth. 

Thorin blinked confusedly, realising that the man was _dead_ , before it happened again. 

The group, that had boxed him in at the base of the tree, were falling – one by one – in the darkness. They seemed to realise something was amiss, and were shouting at each other in confusion. Thorin heard, “Arrows! Arrows!” as the leader’s head swivelled around in alarm, and using the distraction, he leapt forwards, catching the man off guard and disarming him with a swift flick of his wrist. 

The sword landed in the grass with a crunch, and before he could dive for it, Thorin tackled the man to the ground, his hand finding purchase on his neck and squeezing in warning. The man choked, struggling against him, but dwarves were made for strength – he could not shift Thorin’s considerable weight. 

Glancing up, it was then that Thorin saw them: their party dispatching what remained of the bandits. 

Tauriel led the way, her red hair streaming behind her as she fired – one arrow after another – not once missing their mark. Fili and Kili were there too, bludgeoning a man with the butt of their axes, issuing battle cries of various frequencies. 

Thranduil had seen their approach and abandoned his weapon, lurching away from the fight. He was glowing in the dark with the ethereal light of his people – and Thorin could see blood streaked across his face, red and wet. He was clutching at his stomach with a strange expression that Thorin had never seen before: utter relief. 

It did take long to dispatch the last of the bandits. It was when only the leader remained (trapped beneath Thorin), that Tauriel turned to him, her face taunt like her bowstring. 

“Shall I say ‘I told you so’ now, or later?” she asked, her gaze flickering to Thranduil with thinly veiled concern, and back to Thorin, with undisguised fury. 

Thorin glared. 

The leader, realising the fight was lost, finally struggled free of Thorin’s slackened grip, and staggered to his feet, looking around wildly – hoping for escape. Tauriel raised her bow, eyes gleaming, and he froze. 

“You can’t just kill us!” he cried, “Where is your mercy? Where is the justice?”

Thorin ground his teeth and clambered to his feet. He glanced at Thranduil then, his bump splattered with blood, and then back to the man, unblinkingly. 

“For crimes against the King of the Woodland Realm, I, Thorin, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain, sentence you to death.”

The man’s eyes widened in astonishment, as he realised his fatal mistake. 

Tauriel’s arrows flew, and then he was dead. 

+++

Despite it having been a long and tiring day – even dangerous, in parts – Thorin felt wound too tightly to sleep. 

After they had returned to Erebor, and unpacked, Thorin hovered behind at the stables; he hoped to avoid giving an explanation to his advisors, and yet, was unable to rest. Perhaps hiding was cowardly, but he only wanted some moments of peace. Balin would handle the politics in the meantime. 

He felt angry at his own failings – he should have done more to prevent the ambush – and frustrated that Tauriel had been right all along. She said he would be unable to protect the Elvenking and been proven correct; he had failed. If it hadn’t been for a timely rescue, and the Elvenking’s own considerable ability, he hated to think what might have happened to the babe. 

He hated being wrong – almost as much as he hated elves being right. 

He gave his pony an affectionate pat, fed it an apple, and tried to calm his still racing heart. 

He was going a reasonable job, until he heard a soft pad of footsteps as Thranduil appeared at the entrance of the stables. Had he not been pregnant, Thorin would have probably not noticed his presence at all. 

Surrounded by hay and water troughs, it was a strange sight indeed. He looked well enough, still slightly pink in the face but maddeningly calm – not shaken in the slightest. 

Thorin imagined he did not look quite as collected. 

Thranduil gave him a ghost of a smile in greeting, which the dwarf was physically incapable of returning, and said, “Today. I enjoyed it.”

That was not what Thorin had been expecting. He blinked up at him for a long moment, expecting a jest, but Thranduil’s expression was serious. Thorin’s brow furrowed. “You enjoyed getting captured by bandits?” he asked, in plain disbelief. 

Lips quirked, and cheeks dimpled, as Thranduil’s face contorted into something that looked like amusement – a sly, dangerous amusement. “It doesn’t happen to me very often.”

“I imagine not,” said Thorin. 

There was silence then, as Thorin returned to petting his pony, wishing to convey how sorry he was that he had endangered the baby, but unable to voice it. He never had been very good at apologising. 

Before he could find the words, Thranduil spoke again, his voice softer now, and soothing: “Tauriel was wrong. You defended me – and the baby. I will not forget it.”

Thorin could think of nothing to say to that. He was not sure he even wanted the elf’s gratitude. Everything he felt was confused and he was having a hard time disassociating Thranduil, the Elvenking who had let Erebor burn, from Thranduil, the lonely father who was bearing a baby. He was not sure which Thranduil was real – the true representation. 

Perhaps he needed to distance himself. Bilbo and Balin had encouraged him to get close to the Elvenking, to strengthen relations, but he was too involved now; he should not be worrying about the safety of Thranduil’s babe, or wondering (in his quiet moments) whom the father was. 

It was making things too complicated. 

“Anyone would have done the same,” he muttered, in a straggled voice. He stepped back, and away from the Elvenking now looming over him, and added, in a business-like tone, “Now if you’ll excuse me, My Lord, I have important matters to oversee.” 

Balin was currently attending to important matters, but Thranduil didn’t need to know that. 

Sticking his head in the air, Thorin breezed past him, catching a glimpse of Thranduil’s startled face. There was perhaps even a hint of confusion – the elf taken aback by the sudden change in atmosphere. There was a time that unnerving the Elvenking would have given him dark satisfaction, but he felt nothing but a pang of guilt now – for leaving a noticeably isolated figure alone in the shadows. 

Thorin didn’t get far, however, before a small cry of poorly suppressed pain froze him in his steps. 

“Thorin!” Thranduil hissed, and his voice was strange – breathless. 

The tone made Thorin turn. “What’s wrong?” he croaked, alarm curling his gut – he didn’t know what, but something wasn’t right. Shivers were racing down his spine. He hurried back to Thranduil, who was clutching at his stomach, his face creased in pain. “Are you injured?”

“No, it’s the baby,” the Elvenking whispered, eyes wide and glowing like embers in the faint light, “I think it’s happening.”

“What’s happening?” said Thorin blankly. 

Thranduil, despite being doubled over in pain, still managed to throw Thorin a glare. “The birth,” he replied, as though the answer was obvious. 

_Oh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve done a bit of research on how exactly Thranduil is supposed to give birth and given myself a headache.
> 
> HALP.


	5. Cries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter made me wish I’d concentrated more in Biology. 
> 
> I warn you: graphic scenes, not at all biologically accurate, suspension of belief required. 
> 
> Alternatively, you can just skip to the next chapter.

“Guards! Guards!” Thorin bellowed, so loudly Thranduil recoiled slightly in alarm. 

He was holding Thranduil’s wrist in a vice-like grip, where he could feel the rapid thumping of a pulse – his own panic rushing up his spine. Hordes of orcs he could deal with, dragons he could deal with, but he was not equipped or in any way prepared to deal with delivering a child. This was far beyond his duties as king.

Thranduil, on the other hand – although now ghostly white – looked oddly expressionless, like his face had frozen in dread. He was breathing erratically, clutching at his stomach, as Thorin lowered him carefully to the floor. He didn’t know much about childbirth, admittedly, but he did not want Thranduil to strain himself by standing. The hay might not be befitting a king, but it was either that or give birth standing, so Thranduil didn’t have much choice in the matter. 

Two guards burst into the stables, swords drawn, only to look down on the scene before them in astonishment.

“My Lord?” asked the first, a young blond bearded lad, who reminded Thorin of Fili. 

“Summon the healers!” Thorin cried, as Thranduil panted next to him – his breaths long and laboured. “King Thranduil is giving birth. Prepare chambers for him – ensure everything is ready.” 

The guards stared wide-eyed, for a long moment, before disappearing back through the entrance, the clanging of their armour heard even at a distance. Thorin prayed the healers would hurry – he did not want to deliver an elfling on the floor of his stables. 

“Are you ok?” he grunted, glancing at Thranduil’s strained face, and feeling utterly useless. He didn’t know what to do. He had not trained for this. “How do you feel?”

Thranduil was breathing heavily through the mouth, brow furrowed. “Strange,” he confessed, in a quiet voice – as though afraid the horses would hear him. “It hurts. I – ahhhh –!” 

His whines rose into full-bodied cries, a strange sound coming from the Elvenking. His hair was hanging limply over his shoulders, and his face was stark white, except for an alarming splash of red across his cheekbones.

“Ok, calm down. You’re fine,” said Thorin gruffly, because that sounded like what he should be saying. He regretted sending Balin and Bilbo away now – they were much better at this whole empathy business than he was. “We’re going to summon the healers and everything will be fine.” 

He sounded as though he was attempting to convince himself more than Thranduil. 

“It’s not possible,” Thranduil croaked, something akin to real terror shining in his eyes. “It’s too early.” 

“It will be fine,” Thorin said again, because that was all he could say. 

Thranduil cried out again, unable to help himself, running shaking fingers over the swell of his stomach as Thorin knelt beside him, staring determinedly at the floor to try and control his discomfort. 

“I was – I was supposed to give birth in Mirkwood,” he gasped. “Everything was planned.” 

“Yes, well, Legolas has other ideas,” Thorin replied, with what he hoped was a reassuring nod. “He probably wants to see the wonders of Erebor.” 

Never mind that they were currently on the floor of a stable, buried in hay. 

Thranduil laughed, a choked sound, only for it to dissolve into a poorly disguised whine.

+++

Thorin was pacing outside Thranduil’s chambers when Balin appeared at the end of the corridor, puffing, with Dwalin and Bilbo at his heels. 

The guards had helped transport the elf safely to the rooms, Tauriel barking orders at their backs, as Thorin hovered deliberately behind them – unsure of his place. He didn’t want to impose himself on a private situation, but could not contain his apprehension. If anything happened to the babe, it was down to him. Thranduil was in his kingdom – he would never forgive him if something went wrong. All the progress they had made would be lost.

He had waited, for the arrival of the healers, but all they had been able to confirm so far was: yes, the baby was coming, and yes, it was coming now. 

“What’s going on?” cried Dwalin, upon seeing his startled face. 

“It’s Thranduil,” he said, sounding dazed, even to his own ears. “The baby’s coming.” 

The look on Dwalin’s face was nothing short of pure horror – as though the thought alone was the subject of nightmares. Bilbo and Balin, on the other hand, looked suitably concerned, their eyebrows climbing quickly into their hairlines. 

“Is he ok?” asked Bilbo, once he’d gathered himself. 

Thorin shook his head, and starting pacing – feeling restless and full of jittering emotion. “I think so. I don’t know.” He paused. “The baby’s early. I need to go back.”

Dwalin stared at him in disbelief. “You’re going in there?” he cried incredulously. 

“Of course,” replied Thorin, attempting to meet his gaze without blinking. He had nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn’t like anything had happened between them. Thranduil was alone, and pregnant, with someone else’s child, in his kingdom – there was no more to it than that. “I can’t just leave him.” 

Balin’s heavy brows were furrowed. He was looking at Thorin with a strange expression that was beginning to make him uneasy – it was too soft and too knowing. “Why are you doing this, laddie?” he asked. “I know I told you to ally with the Elvenking, but this goes beyond the call of duty.” 

“It’s my fault!” he exclaimed, the words bursting from his lips in a torrent. He felt angry with himself for his failure, and even angrier that he'd let it effect him. He didn't know why he even cared. “I endangered him and the child. It’s early because of me. If anything happens to it – to _him_ – it’s my fault.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Bilbo. 

Thorin shook his head. “I said all those things about not wanting to harm the baby, because the baby is innocent, but I have – I have harmed it,” he explained, his chest tight and heavy. “I can’t leave now – I am not the coward.” 

The words were more for his own benefit than anyone else’s, but nobody stopped him as he made his way back to the chamber, suppressing a small pang of satisfaction as the elf guarding it stood aside for him. 

When he entered, he was not quite prepared for the sight that greeted him; the Elvenking was bent over the bed, in an airy white gown, on his hands and knees, with a healer between his parted legs. His hair was a long wet curtain down his back and his face was already red and shining. 

It was the least dignified position that Thorin had ever seen him, and the dwarf was sure it was an image he would not forget.

The healer was a she-elf Thranduil had (thankfully) brought with him from Mirkwood, to try and manage his morning sickness. She looked up at Thorin in surprise, perhaps a little bit of suspicion, but did not attempt to dismiss him. She, unlike Tauriel, was not going to question his authority. 

Attempting to remain calm, because this was childbirth and nothing Thranduil should be ashamed of, Thorin announced his presence with a cough, and took a place next to Thranduil’s head, where the elf could see him. He wanted to give the Elvenking at least some illusion of privacy. 

Thranduil looked up at his approach, his eyes wide and glassy in astonishment – perhaps even a little relief. 

“How are you?” Thorin asked, a ridiculous question, but all he could think of in such circumstances. 

Thranduil at least attempted a smirk, although it was less effective when his face was damp with sweat and his back was bowed in pain. “I’ve been better,” he conceded, his gaze flickering away, down towards the bed. “I thought you had escaped.” 

Thorin scoffed, reluctant to admit his own cowardice. “I can’t abandon my honoured guest.” He looked about the room, expecting to see attendants, but only seeing the healer. “Where is Tauriel?”

“In the next room. I did not want her to see this.”

Thorin sighed, looking down on Thranduil with incredulity. “She can help you,” he implored, knowing the argument was useless before he even spoke. Pregnancy had not mellowed Thranduil’s stubbornness. 

“I don’t need help,” came the sharp and predictable reply. 

With a sinking feeling, Thorin realised he was trapped. He could hardly leave now. He promised himself he was going to do this, and he was not going to back out – such was the stubbornness of dwarves. 

Thranduil, seemingly unaffected by his presence, let out a shout of agony. He was louder than he had been in the stables, and Thorin could tell that things had progressed at a rapid pace.

“The contractions are faster and longer, you haven’t got long to go,” explained the healer, from her perch at the end of the bed. She glanced up at Thorin then, and cocked a brow, gesturing between Thranduil’s legs. “Do you want to take a look? You can feel how much he is dilated.” 

_“No!”_ Thorin cried, horrified. He was almost as alarmed as Thranduil, who awoke from his haze of pain enough to shoot out a hand, and clutch at Thorin’s wrist with powerful fingers, preventing from moving down to his legs. 

“It’s perfectly natural, a beautiful sight,” the healer continued. Thorin severely doubted that. Thranduil was beautiful, that was hard to deny, as much as having him bent over his bed would please him (some desires never go away, despite the circumstances), bearing a baby (not even his own) was not what Thorin had in mind. “Most father’s like to be involved with the process.” 

Thorin opened his mouth for several moments before he could form actual words. “I’m not the father!” he cried, far louder and high pitched than he intended; Thranduil jerked slightly in surprise and glared up at Thorin through his web of damp hair. 

Thorin shrugged apologetically. 

“Of course not, My Lord,” said the healer, in a tone that made it plain she did not believe him. Thorin could not blame her for her confusion – why else would he be here? He was not the baby’s father, nor was he Thranduil’s friend. 

And yet, here he was. 

“Ok,” continued the healer, in an efficient tone, her hands pressing Thranduil’s thighs further apart; the elf burrowed his face in the sheets, seemingly embarrassed at allowing somebody to see him laid bare, but he did not protest. “My Lord, you’re almost ready. When you get the next contraction, I want you to push.” 

Thranduil jerked his head out of the covers in shock; he looked faintly terrified at the thought, his face opened and slackened in a way that Thorin had never seen before. But he nodded, determined, and let in a whistling breath to prepare himself. 

When the contraction came, even Thorin could tell it was more powerful than the rest. Thranduil went rigid, his grip tightening on Thorin’s wrist – his fingers digging into the rough skin – and he let out an unrestrained cry of agony. Thorin did not think the Elvenking was even capable of making such sounds; he had faced the great serpents of the north – this was not a creature unaccustomed to pain. 

Thorin blinked down at Thranduil’s taunt face, and gasped, “You’re hurting him!”

The healer did not seem overly concerned. “It’s childbirth, I’m afraid pain is inevitable, My Lord,” she informed him briskly, giving Thranduil’s flank a pointed pat. “Ok, ready? Push!” 

Thranduil cried again, sounds that were sure to haunt Thorin’s dreams, and gasped into the bed sheets, unwilling to loosen his grip of Thorin’s wrist. Sweat was dripping down his temples, into his eyelashes, and his hair was plastered to his parted lips. Without thinking, Thorin lifted his remaining hand, and brushed Thranduil’s silken hair back behind his ears, holding it away from his sweaty face. Thranduil glanced at him for the briefest of moments, as though shocked he was still there, but said nothing. 

He was probably no longer capable of words. 

“Yes, push!” cried the healer encouraging, and with a grimace, Thranduil tensed again. His breathing was becoming increasingly erratic, and he did not seem to be getting air into his body fast enough. “My Lord, I need you to calm down. We need long, calm breaths.” She glanced at Thorin then, her eyes sharp. “Help him.” 

Thorin opened his mouth to protest, because how exactly was he supposed to do that, when Thranduil tilted his head up to look at him expectantly. Thorin paused. “Uh – breathe – slowly – with me,” he said, silently cursing, because he had never sounded so ludicrous – but Thranduil was watching him, focusing on his lips, mimicking his breaths. “Yes, like that. Breathe with me.” 

The healer gave him a thankful nod and a ghost of a smile – a small gesture of approval – before patting Thranduil again. “Good, good. I’m going to need you to push again.” 

Thranduil looked as though he was about to tell her where to shove it, his teeth clenched and brows furrowed. His gown was now sticking to the curve of his back, sheer with sweat, and his legs were trembling. He had come down from his hands, to brace himself on his arms, his arse still thrust into the air. 

“It hurts,” he confessed, in a breathless voice – seemingly abandoning whatever remained of his pride. 

“I know. You’re doing well,” said Thorin soothingly, hoping to curb Thranduil’s frustration. It didn’t look particularly pleasant, admittedly, but it would be over soon. “You’re going to meet Legolas, remember that.” 

The thought alone seemed to calm Thranduil somewhat. He took in another breath, focusing hard on Thorin’s face, and _pushed_ – a cry tearing itself from the back of his throat. 

“Good! Good!” Thorin breathed, with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. It was probably more of a grimace – regardless, Thranduil was far too gone to care. 

“I can see him, he’s crowning,” announced the healer, which sounded as though it was a good thing. She looked at Thorin then, her eyes glittering, and asked, “Do you want to look?”

The answer was obviously _no._

And yet, Thorin did not reply. Any sort of sensible thought seemed to have deserted him. He was part of this now, he might as well commit to it. He was not one to do anything by halves. The healer thought he was the father anyway – what harm could it do? 

Thranduil – evidently sensing his curiosity, and his lack of instant denial – looked up at him in confusion, searching his face for _something._ Whatever it was, he must have found it, because he nodded then, and puffed, “Thorin.” 

It was permission. 

With his heart in his throat, Thorin edged down to the bottom of the bed, where Thranduil’s legs were spread, the gown bunched around his hips. The healer shuffled to the side, to let him look, and Thorin hesitated for only a moment – feeling on the verge of something – before peering between his fingers. He could see pale thighs, shining with sweat, and between his legs, redness, and a small tuft of what looked like golden hair. 

It was a head.

Thorin thought, if he were a lesser dwarf, he might faint. 

“How does it look?” asked Thranduil, and there was a note of something in his voice – unease or self-consciousness? It was well disguised, but still undeniably there. He seemed too weak to cover it completely. 

“Painful,” croaked Thorin. That was the truth. There was nothing sexual about it. It looked painful – so very painful. 

“Thanks very much for such an astute observation,” Thranduil deadpanned, and Thorin could imagine the familiar roll of his eyes.

Unable to look away, both horrified and fascinated, he added, faintly, “He’s blond.” 

Thranduil laughed then, softly, and Thorin could see his whole body quaking. 

“You’re almost there,” said the healer, bumping Thorin out the way unapologetically. 

Normally, Thorin might feel affronted, but his legs were shaking and he felt a little dizzy – not unlike how he felt in Mirkwood, drunk on the magic of the forest. He edged back towards Thranduil’s head, but the image was now engraved on the back of his eyelids for the rest of the ages. There was no going back now, that was something he would not be able to undo. Their relationship had changed forever.

Thranduil quirked a lip at him, evidently taking preserve pleasure in his shellshock (glad he was no longer the only one uncomfortable), and grabbed for his hand. Thorin let him entwine their fingers, as though watching events from very far away, and noted how soft Thranduil’s hands were – for all his skill with a sword, they were completely free of calluses. 

“Push again!” cried the healer, jolting Thorin from his reverie, as Thranduil’s grip tightened, and he let out a straggled cry. “Push! Push! The head is almost out.” 

Thranduil’s face was bright pink with strain, and he was panting unashamedly. 

“Come on,” urged Thorin, “You’re so close! One last push.” 

Thranduil jerked his head, unable to find the strength to shake it completely, and breathed, “Can’t.” 

There was a word Thorin never thought he’d hear from the Elvenking. 

“You can,” he countered, giving his wet hand a tight squeeze. “Just once more.” 

Thranduil arched his back and threw back his head with one final wail; there was a rush, of what sounded like water, and the healer pitched forwards between Thranduil’s legs. Then, Thorin heard it: small, feeble cries. 

The healer emerged, smiling, as Thranduil collapsed, his legs giving way beneath him. In her arms was a whining creature, so tiny Thorin felt sure it could fit in the palm of his hand. It was red, with a squished face, and flailing arms. It could have been a human babe, if not for the tiny points of his ears. Beneath the fluid, Thorin could already see a bright clump of golden hair. 

“Thranduil,” Thorin croaked, turning back to the Elvenking as the healer went to deal with the babe. Thranduil was facedown on the bed, his legs sprawled, and hair in utter disarray around him – like a golden veil. 

With a huff, Thorin reached forwards to turn him over and prop him upright against the headboard. Thranduil allowed the dwarf to move him and arrange his limbs without complaint, only groaning in discomfort when Thorin shifted his legs. Down by his feet, Thorin could see red and twisted sheets, and summoned a servant to fetch clean blankets. 

Thranduil was attempting to peer over at the baby, still breathing heavily, his eyes tired and half-lidded. Although tired, he was glowing, brighter than ever, as Legolas let out increasingly loud weeps as the healer tended to him. 

She returned a moment later, with the baby clean and bundled into fresh blankets, and Thranduil’s face was slack with emotion. He took the babe, into his arms, and gazed down at him – pure affection radiating from his every crevice. 

The baby settled immediately, and peered up at them, with his own gleaming blue eyes. 

“Hello, my little Legolas,” Thranduil breathed, overcome with joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is utterly shameless! 
> 
> I’m aware it makes absolutely no scientific sense, I abandoned all reason in the end – this is a Mpreg, after all! 
> 
> This was a quick update because I'm away at the weekend, so there probably won't be an update for a week or two. <3


	6. Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get very confusing for everyone involved. Including me.

Thorin made his way back to his chambers that night on shaking legs. The labour had been relatively short, considering, but Thorin felt as though he’d journeyed to the ends of Middle-Earth. The day had been a long one, what with the visit to Mirkwood and the subsequent birth – dawn was almost upon him. 

He’d left Thranduil, cooing over baby Legolas, with warm sheets and plenty of foods from the kitchen, but already he wondered how the new father was fairing. Should he go back to help? He didn't know what exactly he offered, other than a shoulder to lean on or a hand to hold, but Thranduil seemed to have appreciated his presence. 

He'd let him be involved in the birth - even as far as acting like a stand-in father. He had even peered between Thranduil's legs. Thorin wasn’t sure what he’d done to earn that trust, and did not feel as though he'd deserved it. As much as he had protested otherwise, perhaps even Thranduil hadn’t wanted to do it alone – and Thorin was the only option, the only one (besides Tauriel) who'd shown any interest. 

Thorin didn't know _why_ he was so interested. Perhaps a side of him - dark and twisted - enjoyed seeing Thranduil so vulnerable. It was the only explanation. Why else had he agreed to be there?

The answer continued to evade him. 

He fell into an uneasy sleep, to the echoes of a baby’s cry. 

+++ 

The next day Thorin was thrown into a meeting with his advisors, to which he was grateful. He had not got any sleep the night before, so full were his dreams of Thranduil, Legolas, and Erebor burning, but he was glad for the distraction. 

It was mostly the usual issues, but he had left far too much to Balin since Thranduil’s arrival, and needed to put his mind back where it should be. Thranduil would be leaving soon, back to Mirkwood where Legolas would be safe, and Thorin might not see him or the baby for years to come. They weren’t friends – they were barely even allies – and yet Thorin felt a strange pang at the thought of their departure. 

By the time the meeting finished, it was evening, and Thorin felt as though he’d missed his opportunity to visit father and son. His attendants assured him that they were being well cared for, and that both were in good health, which lessened the odd burning in his chest. 

He wanted to see them, to ensure they were receiving the best care his kingdom could offer (he didn't want any wars, after all), but then he didn’t want to fuel the fire. He had to keep reminding himself – it was not his child, and it was not his place to be there for them. 

He met Dwalin in the dining hall, and was glad that his friend did not so much as mention the Elvenking. The atmosphere was light and easy between them, and Thorin felt normal for the first time in days. All he’d thought about recently – both good and bad – had been Thranduil, and he was glad for the reprieve. 

He stumbled to bed that night slightly drunker than necessary, and was asleep within moments of his head hitting the pillow. He didn’t have time to think of anything else, and when he awoke he felt brighter, clearer, and recharged. 

The next couple of days passed much in the same way. Thorin spent hours in meetings, catching up on all that he’d missed, and spent his evenings drinking with Dwalin, hoping to clear some of his confusion. His thoughts about Thranduil (more distant but certainly not forgotten) were not becoming any clearer, and Thorin wondered if his reluctance to see him was only delaying the inevitable and making the situation worse. 

He hated being so indecisive, so unsure, but his feelings towards Thranduil were complicated – cloaked, even to him – and he did not want to promise anything he could not deliver. It would be unfair to imply involvement with Thranduil and the child if he would never see them again once they left. 

Thranduil’s attendants visited him sometimes, to update him on their wellbeing, and Thorin was glad they were both safe and healthy – a testament to the healers, and the resources his kingdom could command. He wondered whether Thranduil had noticed his absence, and was bothered by it, but pushed the thought away as quickly as it had come. Surely Thranduil had more important things to be thinking about now that he had Legolas? He had probably not given Thorin a second thought. 

It was more comfortable to believe that, and lessened Thorin’s guilt, but even if Thranduil hadn’t noticed his absence, someone else certainly had. 

Bilbo cornered him in his chambers while he was reading through masses of parchment on gold mining. 

It seemed he had not been as stealthy as he had hoped with his avoidance of Thranduil: Tauriel had reported to Kili, who in turn had reported to Balin, and Balin had reported to Bilbo. Even in the halls of Erebor, nothing was sacred. 

"What's going on with you and the Elvenking?" asked Bilbo, without preamble, or so much as a 'Good morning'. 

"Nothing," replied Thorin, in the same brisk manner, staring determinedly at the parchment. It made no more sense than the first three times he'd read it. 

Bilbo raised a disbelieving brow, and Thorin wondered when he had started lying all the time. He hated lying. He sighed. "I'm just trying to clear my mind," he admitted. 

Bilbo nodded, and rocked forwards on his feet. "I see," he said delicately. "And does the Elvenking know that?"

"I'm sure the Elvenking has other things to be worrying about," Thorin replied, although it sounded flimsy even to his own ears. Thranduil did not miss anything: he would have noted Thorin's absence, that was for sure. Thorin would be foolish to think otherwise.

“Thorin, you were there for the birth," Bilbo reminded him, as though he had forgotten - as though he had not been thinking out it every moment since. "It implies you intend to be there for him. Not run as soon as you're out of the door.” 

“He doesn’t need me to be there for him,” Thorin argued, instinctively – but even as he said the words, he knew it was a lie. Thranduil was strong, certainly; a force to be reckoned with, but not entirely infallible; as much as he didn’t want to admit it, the abandonment of Legolas’ father had stung him, perhaps far deeper than Thorin knew. 

Bilbo frowned at him, and Thorin looked away, unable to meet such a knowing gaze. He felt like a coward. “Thorin, this isn’t like you. What are you so afraid of?” 

“I’m not afraid of anything,” said Thorin stubbornly, avoiding all eye contact and abandoning his pride completely. 

His lie did not convince Bilbo. He was looking through him like a plane of glass.

“You’re afraid about how you feel about him,” Bilbo supplied, when Thorin said nothing. 

That was true. He felt ashamed to admit it - he could barely contemplate the thought in his head, let alone say it out loud. It was the Elvenking, who had deserted Erebor and watched it burn, and yet, it was Thranduil, who softly stroked his stomach and was left alone to raise the child. 

“I don’t know how I feel about him, that’s the problem," he conceded. He struggled to formalise what he was feeling, but Bilbo was watching him patiently, waiting. "If it was clear in my head then maybe I could act on it. I feel a lot of resentment still – but something else.” 

Bilbo smiled then, and Thorin felt his cheeks heating. “Interest?” he guessed. 

Thorin said nothing. Bilbo sighed. 

“Thorin, if there is a possibility, shouldn’t you seize the chance now?” he implored. “The Elvenking will not wait around patiently for you to make up your mind. Decide what you’re going to do and stick to it. I’m sure the Elvenking does not appreciate being messed around.” 

Thorin didn’t doubt that. He needed to act soon, on whatever he decided. 

+++ 

“Good afternoon,” Thorin said, going for pleasant but only achieving gruffness. 

The greeting did not seem to work regardless; Tauriel stared at him accusingly, her pointed brow arched. She was stood in front of Thranduil’s chambers (as she usually was when Thorin did not want her to be there) and did not seem particularly inclined to move for him. 

“Where have you been?” she said instead, folding her arms. 

Thorin knew, instantly, that this was not going to be a pleasant conversation. 

“Running a kingdom,” replied Thorin, irritably, which wasn’t entirely a lie. He appreciated what she was trying to do for Thranduil, but he felt he would appreciate it more if it weren’t aimed directly at him. 

He’d only been trying to help; he wasn’t _actually_ the father of the babe. Everyone seemed to have forgotten that. 

“So busy you couldn’t visit your honoured guests?” she asked innocently. Her tone was faux friendly, constrained by her rank and Thorin’s title – barely skimming appropriateness. 

Thorin sighed. “Enough with the games,” he ordered. “Speak freely.” 

Tauriel eyed him distrustfully for a moment, clearly wondering if he might be tricking her, but unable to contain herself – the opportunity was clearly too good to ignore. “If you don’t care about him or Legolas, fine, but don’t – don’t pretend,” she said sharply. “It’s cruel. Thranduil is not without feelings, despite what you may think.” 

“I haven’t pretended anything,” Thorin argued, unable to prevent his voice from rising in offense. “I am not a liar or a cheat.” 

Tauriel did not look as though she believed him. “Thranduil thinks the same – that you are honourable, despite all your differences,” she replied, with a helpless jerk of her shoulders. “I have not seen much evidence of it myself.” 

Thorin found he had no argument to that. And so, said instead, by way of apology, “I’m here now.” 

Tauriel smiled, slightly flinted but genuine nonetheless, and conceded, “Yes, I suppose you are – it’s more I can say for some.” 

Her voice trailed off bitterly, but it was no longer directed at him. With a defeated sigh, she stood aside, and Thorin rushed past her before she could change her mind – taking a deep breath for courage. 

He found Thranduil perched on the edge of his bed, in a white gown and hair bellowing freely behind him. He wore no adornments, or boots, and his bare feet were stuck out in the cool air. He was leaning over Legolas – a tiny bundle of blankets with flailing pink limbs, moaning softly. Thranduil looked unkempt, tired still, and considerably thinner, having lost the weight of the baby; his stomach was rounded, but only slightly, and Thorin knew it would not be long before his body recovered entirely. 

“Lord Thranduil,” he greeted, in a voice that was considerably calmer than he felt. 

Thranduil did not even flinch, nor turn to face him. His pressed his lips against Legolas’ forehead, in silent worship, and muttered, reluctantly, “King Thorin.” 

So he was angry about Thorin’s absence. Thorin could see it in his posture, in the frozen lines of his face. He was no longer talking to Thranduil – this was the Elvenking. 

“How is the baby?” he tried, figuring it was a safe conversation starter. The babe looked healthy enough, although frighteningly small, pink in the face and fair of hair – less of a scrawling lump. 

Thranduil let out a puff of air that betrayed his fatigue. He admitted, after a pause, his voice worried and strained: “He cries when I try to leave him.” He shook his head and straightened before Thorin could reply, and seemed to regain some of his composure. He crossed his arms, disguising the soft roundness of his belly, and added, in a more business-like tone, “We’ll be out of Erebor soon enough. The healer says I need to wait – that I am too sore and tender to travel.” 

His tongue feeling heavy and useless in his mouth, Thorin replied as Balin had trained him: “You are welcome to stay here as long as you need.” 

There was an oppressive silence as Thranduil stared at him, guarded and accusing; Thorin tried hard not to glance away, feeling very small and very guilty, barely understanding why. 

“You claim to be a honest king, Thorin Oakenshield; will you answer my question?” 

The dwarf could only nod, feeling as though he was on the precipice of something important. 

“Why did you stay during the birth, if you have no interest in me or the baby?” Thranduil asked, and his gaze was sharp and accusing, his mouth twisted into an unhappy line. Although dressed in a sheer gown and little else, he seemed to have adopted his posture of old: the straightened shoulders and tilted head of the unfeeling Elvenking. 

Thorin felt as though they’d just taken one hundred steps backward, and cursed himself for his stupidity. Thranduil had given him an opportunity, an opening to dissolve all the animosity between them – become allies, even friends, perhaps lovers, a mocking voice whispered – and he’d blown it. Now Thranduil would never trust him. 

“Did you enjoy watching me scream?” the Elvenking continued. “Was this your revenge all along?” 

Thorin felt his temper rising, despite himself. He’d hated the Elvenking, yes, but he would never have resorted to something so cruel and perverse. “What sort of monster do you think I am?” he snapped, tired at his integrity being questioned at every turn. It wasn’t _his_ fault Thranduil had been abandoned with babe. 

“Our past aside, I thought you were noble and principled – but I have known to be wrong regarding such things.” Thranduil trailed off with a small jerk of his shoulder – as though he was going for unaffected, but couldn’t quite make it work. He smiled then, mockingly, but it was not directed at Thorin, but at himself, for being so easily deceived. 

“You weren’t wrong about this,” Thorin countered, realising that Thranduil’s mistrust was not down to the dwarf’s actions, but the father’s betrayal. The two were becoming entwined, confused, and Thorin felt like he was the father who’d abandoned the baby. It was ridiculous that he should feel so accountable – but the lines were blurring, and he felt guilty for implying that he would be there, only to go back on his word. Was he no better than the father, really? “I stayed because I felt responsible for you and the baby. I still do.” 

“Then why leave us here alone?” snapped Thranduil, and there was betrayal bleeding into his voice that he was unable to conceal. Whatever the father had done to him, had affected him far more than Thorin knew – the pain and the anger was surfacing now, again, triggered by Thorin’s abandonment. “Please no lies about ruling a kingdom; I’m not that much of a fool.” 

Thorin wanted to be angry, but he felt only a strange combination of sadness and guilt. He needed to be honest now – he was not so cowardly. “I haven’t come because – because I’m confused about why I’m doing this,” he replied, reluctantly, imploring for Thranduil to believe him. 

He wanted to fix the chasm that had opened between them. Thranduil had given him his trust, during the birth, and he had been foolish to cast it aside. He wanted that trust again – for his kingdom… and for himself. He didn’t know why. 

“And why are you doing this?” Thranduil asked, seemingly reading his mind. His face was defrosting now, and he looked unsure – bewildered but curious. Perhaps not all was lost. Perhaps Thranduil wanted this new friendship to work between them too. 

“Because the baby deserves to be safe and happy,” Thorin admitted, flickering his gaze over the golden bundle clasped tightly in Thranduil’s arms. The next words came involuntarily, but Thorin would not shy away from them; he valued frankness, and honestly, and so, added, with a reluctant smile, “And so do you.” 

Thranduil’s face flickered in surprise, and he smiled back, just a small quirk of the lips, but enough for Thorin to know his words had effected him. Tauriel was right: Thranduil was not without feelings, although he was adept at hiding them. 

“I believe you,” the elf conceded, after a weighted pause. 

His posture unravelled slightly, after the argument was over, and Thorin could see exhaustion radiating off him in waves; he slumped over the side of the bed, curling up against Legolas, his slackened face shielded by his long curtain of hair. The conversation had taken a lot out of him, and Thorin felt a pang of guilt at worsening his tiredness. 

“You should rest,” said Thorin, after a beat, edging closer. “Can’t you get anyway to look after Legolas for a while? That is what attendants are for. I’m sure Tauriel would be happy to help.” 

“Tauriel is the Captain of the Guard – not a nurse maid.” 

Thorin rolled his eyes. “And you’re the Elvenking – you don’t have to do this alone.” 

Thranduil laughed then, a cold and insincere sound, and responded, so quietly, Thorin almost missed it: “I am alone.” 

Thorin huffed, closing the remaining distance between them, and swept Thranduil’s hair out of his face with determined hands, willing the elf to see his expression – and note his sincerity. “Not right now you're not,” he said pointedly, as Thranduil’s eyes flickered upwards to look at him, glazed with fatigue, but amused too. 

“Only because you’re the only person I can’t order away,” he grumbled. 

“Then I’ll look after Legolas,” said Thorin, with far more confidence than he felt. He held out his arms expectantly – trying to contain his apprehension. Surely looking after a tiny babe could not be that difficult? “Get some rest.” 

Thranduil looked at him doubtfully, his arms still firmly clutching a wriggling Legolas. He seemed reluctant to be parted from his precious son. “You, look after an elfing?” 

Thorin tried not to be too offended by his disbelieving tone. “I’ll have you know I was very involved in raising Fili and Kili,” he replied, in a dignified voice. 

Thranduil gave him a ghost of a smile, utterly unsurprised, and replied softly, “Of course you were.” 

Hesitantly, he closed the distance with Thorin – so close the dwarf could feel the warmth of his skin and smell the woodland in his hair – and pushed the babe into his awaiting arms. 

Thorin stumbled in surprise at his armful of elf, and looked to Thranduil with a silent plea, because while he could remember helping with Fili and Kili, they had never seemed so small or helpless; his previous words of confidence seemed to have deserted him. 

Legolas wriggled in his arms, face scrunching, and batted him in the chin with tiny fists. Thranduil peered over his shoulder, a curtain of golden hair sweeping against his arms, and his eyelashes only inches from Thorin’s cheek, and adjusted the dwarf’s grip on Legolas’ tiny head. “Here,” he muttered, and Thorin could feel his hot breath against his ear. “Support his head.” 

The elfing’s hair was soft and smooth, like golden silk, and Thorin knew it wouldn’t be long until he had the same long waterfall as his father. His eyes – when Legolas deigned to open them – were bright and inquisitive, the same icy blue, and Thorin wondered if there were any attributes he’d inherited from his other father. Thorin couldn’t see any – everything belonged to Thranduil. 

He was, by all accounts, a beautiful child. 

“I’m sorry,” Thorin blurted, a strange feeling rising in his chest. He looked down at Legolas, who had managed to entangle his hands in his beard, and (feeling like a coward) avoided the intensity of Thranduil’s gaze. 

“For what?” asked the elf, in genuine confusion. 

“For not being here, the last couple of days,” he confessed, in a gruff voice. He felt like he owed Thranduil an explanation and apology – although he couldn’t say why. (Balin had been encouraging him to admit his wrongdoings, as part of his journey to become a wise and benevolent king. Perhaps he was learning something.) “Everything was confusing and I needed to clear my mind – it is no excuse.” 

“I understand,” said Thranduil, and his voice choked off slightly as Thorin stroked a gentle hand over Legolas’ rounded cheek. It took a moment before the elf could speak again, and when Thorin glanced to the side curiously, he could see Thranduil’s eyes were soft and loving as they gazed down at the babe bracketed in Thorin’s arms. “I shouldn’t have been so angry. You have no responsibility to the baby or I; do not trouble yourself.” 

“I do have a responsibility,” Thorin said angrily – angry with himself more than anything. He knew Thranduil would deny needing any assistance, and so tried a different tact. “I know you don’t need my help, but I want to give it anyway, if I can.” 

Thranduil smiled at him then, cheeks dimpling, and admitted, in a brisk tone, “You already have.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay with this! I was away last weekend and I’ve been ill since (blegh). 
> 
> This chapter was a bit all over the place, but is intended to show Thorin’s conflicting feelings.


	7. Outings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin, Thranduil and Legolas go on a picnic. Yes, really. Dwalin says so.

While Thorin was not particularly fond of children (aside of his own kin, of course – he had loved Fili and Kili), he found Legolas to be a very agreeable little elfling. 

He was quiet (most of the time), and clever, with a scary sharpness in his blue eyes and curiosity in the arch of his brows. He watched Thorin and Thranduil as they moved, and made weak whining noises when they spoke to him, as though trying to talk back to them. He entwined his hands in any hair he could find, from the long golden locks of his father, to the rugged strands of Thorin’s beard. He was tiny still – for he had been too early – but perfectly proportioned, with soft ruddy cheeks and pointed ears. 

Thorin felt heavy and clumsy when handling him, as though he would accidentally crush the babe in his roughened hands, but Legolas calmed at his touch, seemingly recognising him. It warmed Thorin’s chest, and simultaneously confused him, for how could he feel such affection for an elf – the son of the king who had watched Erebor burn.

His feelings for Thranduil were even more complicated, and he could not make sense of them, even in his own mind. All he knew was that he enjoyed Thranduil’s company (for the most part), and that beneath his icy exterior the elf was sharp, witty, wise and caring. 

When he watched the king curl up on his bed, in a white gown and little else (seemingly comfortable with Thorin’s presence, despite his near nakedness), Legolas cooing against his breast, Thorin felt something he couldn’t articulate. He was glad he had chosen to support Thranduil, regardless of what was forming between them, and wished he had the courage to dare for something more. 

While Bilbo was pleased he had made a decision regarding Thranduil (although Thorin still didn’t know what that decision was – only that it meant spending time with two elves), Balin was not quite so amenable. 

More time with Thranduil (and Legolas), by extension, meant less time running a kingdom. 

“Don’t you want to oversee the preparations for Bard the Bowman’s arrival?” Balin asked, at dinner with the company, when Thorin announced he would not be attending council the next day. Even as his relationship with Thranduil improved, there were still other politics to attend to, and other lords to please.

“I trust you have it all in hand,” said Thorin dismissively, as Fili and Kili peered at him over their goblets with thinly veiled curiosity. Thorin could see their eyes gleaming. 

“Why aren’t you attending council?” asked Fili. 

The company all turned to stare at him. He looked back defiantly, and admitted, "I'm accompanying Prince Legolas on his first official outing."

"With Thranduil?" pressed Kili, with a cock of his brow. 

Thorin suddenly felt as though he was being interrogated. At his own dining table. Wasn't he supposed to be king?

"Well yes - I don't think he's going to let me walk off with his child," he replied, slightly more defensive than intended. Thorin had been helping take care of Legolas, yes, but never unaccompanied – Thorin did think the fragile trust between was ready for that quite yet. 

Bilbo smiled; the rest of the company looked bemused. 

"It gives us a chance to talk politics,” he explained, when nobody else said anything. Only Bombur looked disinterested, continuing to eat his boar with enthusiasm at the far end of the table. Dwalin looked at him as though he was suddenly sprouting elvish. “Thranduil can't travel far, he's still weak, and Legolas needs some fresh air. He's an elf, after all. I'm taking them to the meadows."

"So you're going for a picnic," Dwalin summarised, incredulously.

Thorin’s mouth thinned. 

"Can we come?” Kili exclaimed, before Thorin could answer. He and Fili leaned forward over their dinner plates, with matching mischievous smiles. “We want to meet the elfling!"

Thorin had a feeling it was more to do with Tauriel than Legolas; where Thranduil went, Tauriel inevitably followed. 

"No," he said firmly, looking back down at his dinner. He prodded at his boar with a knife, to avoid their stares. (Not that he was afraid or ashamed. His business was his own. It was just that nobody to resist the power of double pouting faces. He learnt that many years ago.)

"He is going to be our diplomatic partner now that we have such close ties to Mirkwood,” said Fili, in his most sensible voice, as Kili nodded frantically beside him. Thorin glanced up, groaned, and looked back down again. “You said it yourself - you were going to talk business."

"We are your heirs, after all," chimed in Kili.

Thorin sighed, wishing for nothing more than the conversation to end. He stabbed at his boar with more aplomb than necessary, and conceded, “Fine.”

Fili and Kili whooped, and high-fived. 

Thorin made a mental note to speak to their mother about their table manners. 

+++

The ride out to the meadow was far more complicated than Thorin expected. It turned out babies needed a lot of equipment for a simple day trip. Thranduil had overseen the packing of supplies, to combat even the most unlikely of circumstances, and the whole thing had gotten frighteningly out of hand. 

It had ended with Thorin peering into several sacks of potatoes and resisting the urge to throw one at Thranduil’s head. 

“You don’t need this many potatoes,” he pointed out, as pleasantly as he could manage. It still sounded like he was grumbling. “We are not even going for half a day.” 

Thranduil made a disagreeable face from behind his hair, which was blowing slightly in the breeze, and adjusted Legolas (bundled in blankets) against his chest. He had decided to put on real clothing for their excursion (Thorin had not seen him in anything other than a sleeping gown for days) and it had reminded Thorin, with a jolt, that he was still the Elvenking. 

He was wearing a long green robe, embroidered with gold, and a circlet, placed upon his plaited hair. He looked like the magnificent Elvenking of old – Thorin could barely see the bump of where the baby used to be. 

“We don’t know what could happen,” argued Thranduil, a stubborn line forming between his eyebrows. “We could get stuck in a snow storm and be without aid for days.”

Thorin raised his eyebrows, and replied disbelievingly, “It’s sunny!”

Thranduil had conceded in the end (Thorin’s first victory in any argument with the Elvenking), and had disposed of most of the potatoes, although had still insisted on a stash of blankets: “In case of rain.” 

The ride out into the wilderness was a long one. They were not going very far, just beyond the borders of Dale, but Thranduil had insisted on carrying Legolas – one handed – astride his elk. Neither the baby nor the elk had appreciated it very much, and Thorin could hear Legolas’ small and pathetic whines of complaint. 

“So… why the escort?” asked Thranduil, as they reached an incline, and the elk slowed to prevent jolting the baby. Thorin was waiting behind for them. The rest of the riders – including Tauriel and a rapidly talking Kili – had gone on ahead to scout the land. “When you said we were taking Legolas outside, I had assumed you meant us.” His gaze flickered to the rest of the party. “Not them.” 

Thorin let out a breath. There was something strange in the tone of Thranduil’s voice – maybe bitterness? Had he expected something else from the outing? Thorin could not begin to interpret what the Elvenking was thinking – despite the time spent together, the elf continued to remain a mystery. 

“Tauriel was never going to let you go unprotected,” Thorin pointed out, which Thranduil conceded with a reluctant nod. “And my nephews were rather insistent about attending – particularly Kili.” 

Thorin rolled his eyes, and smirked at their backs; he could see, even from a distance, Kili hanging on Tauriel’s every word. Thranduil followed his gaze, and his eyes widened in sudden understanding. “Do you mind?” he asked, after a moment, and his voice was full of hidden meaning. “That he’s interested in an elf?”

Feeling as though his answer was very important, Thorin shook his head. Something coiled tightly in Thranduil’s posture suddenly loosened. “Of course not,” he replied, honestly. He was far beyond that point. As much as he hated to admit it, he would never have reclaimed the mountain without elven aid – and he never would have defended it without Thranduil’s. “I’ve got no reason to dislike Tauriel – aside from her burning hatred for me.” 

Thranduil laughed, the sound carrying in the wind, and Legolas burbled in agreement. “She doesn’t hate you,” the Elvenking stated, sobering slightly. He looked down at the baby, and kissed a puffy cheek. “After what happened, she’s just protective of me.” 

Their relationship – if they even had one – had come a long way since Thranduil’s arrival in Erebor, and Thorin was almost certain he would not end up headless, as he blurted, “And what happened?” 

He cursed himself the moment the words left his mouth, but tact was not his forte and he really wanted to know. Thranduil carried on looking at Legolas, but his mouth had thinned and there was something sharp in his eyes. Despite all that had happened between them (including a very graphic birth), they had never really touched upon Legolas’ father. 

“Nothing really happened,” Thranduil replied, lowly, after Thorin had all but given up on getting an answer. “Perhaps I am being unfair on him. He didn’t want anything from me really – I was just… an experiment.” 

Thorin opened his mouth in surprise and choked slightly on his tongue. “I’m sure that’s not true,” he ventured, once he had recovered himself, because it felt like an appropriate thing to say. It was a Bilbo thing to say. 

Thranduil laughed humourlessly, and Legolas began to cry – small and breathless sobs – as though sensing his father’s distress. “Shhh,” he whispered, into the shell of the elfing’s ear, before his gaze flickered back up to Thorin. “It’s true – and pretending otherwise isn’t going to change things. I didn’t – I didn’t feel anything for him besides passion and his interest was fun, flattering – it didn’t really mean anything. I didn’t expect to end up pregnant.” 

He stopped the elk completely, and Thorin followed, watching carefully as Thranduil bounced the baby upon his lap. Legolas was not appeased, however, and only cried louder. The noise was beginning to attract the attention of the rest of the party, who had all turned in their saddles to stare at them. Thorin could practically feel Tauriel’s glare on the side of his face, and just knew she was somehow blaming the elfing’s distress entirely on him. 

He nudged his pony forwards and held out his arms in invitation. Thranduil hesitated, before passing Legolas over with a sigh. The babe gurgled at the change in environment, and immediately stuffed his open mouth with Thorin’s hair, hiccupping as his cries lessened. His face was red and angry, but his eyes were wide and blinking in bemusement – the tears vanishing in a moment. 

Thorin smiled down at him fondly. 

“What happened between us wasn’t serious,” Thranduil continued, his words heavy with emotion, now that he was in his stride, “but when I told him about the baby I expected him to support me – us.”

Thorin adjusted Legolas in his grip, wondering how someone would be so heartless as to desert something so precious and innocent. The babe deserved his fathers – both of them. 

“And he didn’t?” Thorin guessed. 

Thranduil smiled sadly. “Evidently not. He was not the noble man I thought. He didn’t want me – or my baby – interfering with his life.”

That got Thorin’s attention. He froze, his mind registering one single word. “Man?” he repeated, in disbelief. “He wasn’t an elf?”

Thranduil raised a brow, seemingly amused by Thorin’s blank surprise, but conceded, “He wasn’t an elf.” 

++

After Thranduil’s confession during the ride, Thorin’s mind was racing with confusion. 

The elves were a snobbish species, certain in their own superiority, distant and unattainable – it was rare for one to ever lay with another race. It had never even occurred to Thorin that the Legolas’ father might not be an elf. 

He didn’t know whether it was a good sign – whether it meant Thranduil would be open to something with a dwarf, and that the thing developing between them was not just a figment of his own imagination. He wished to ask, to know Thranduil’s mind, but the moment had passed and he was not sure he would ever get another one.

When they arrived at the meadow, they rested the ponies, and unpacked a lunch (prepared by the cooks) of various leaves and vegetables. It was crunchy, and tasteless, but Thranduil seemed to appreciate the gesture, and finished his without complaint. Fili and Kili made various faces of disgust, and when they were sure Tauriel wasn’t looking, threw their dishes down the hillside. Legolas had the milk Thranduil had packed for him, and slopped most of it down his chin. 

Fili and Kili found it very amusing, and proceeded to make cooing sounds at the baby with increasingly frequency – the baby whined and burbled back at them, waving his tiny arms in uncoordinated motions. 

“Can I hold him?” asked Kili eagerly, edging closer. 

While Thorin was sure that Thranduil would refuse, the elf glanced at him, before nodding – passing Legolas over with only a small hint of reluctance. Kili beamed down at the baby, and smoothed a firm hand over the soft down of his hair. 

Tauriel smiled at him in approval (which was rich, since every time Thorin held the baby he got only glares of distain) and Kili practically glowed under her attention. Thorin met Thranduil’s knowing gaze and smirked. 

Once Fili and Kili had their turns with the baby, it was time for them to begin the journey back to Erebor. 

Although Legolas seemed to like the outdoors – he was far more animated than usual – the day was growing long, and the night would soon be upon them. Thorin had to prepare for Bard’s arrival, and both Thranduil and Legolas looked tired – Thorin could tell the journey had been difficult on Thranduil’s still healing body. 

Thorin helped him dismount his elk as they arrived back at the gate, wrapping an arm around a now slender waist, but Thranduil’s movements were still slow and disjointed. He winced when he touched the floor, clutching Legolas tight to his chest. 

Before Thorin could offer to escort him back to his chambers, he heard a distant cry of his name. He recognised it, and suppressed the urge to groan. 

“King Thorin,” panted Balin, rushing towards him – his face shining with excursion. Once he reached him, he bent over, not to bow to Thranduil as expected, but in an attempt to catch his breath. “I’m so glad you’re back. He was early – he’s already here! He’s waiting for you to greet him!”

Thorin stared at him blankly. “Who?”

So full were his thoughts of Thranduil, it took Thorin a long time to realise that Bard the Bowman, the Dragon-slayer, had already arrived at Erebor. It was only when the man appeared at Balin’s back, flanked by two men of Laketown, that Thorin realised his mistake. 

He stepped forward to greet him, only to realise Thranduil had frozen solid beside him, and Bard was staring at the elf in utter astonishment. 

Everything suddenly became very clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit is about to hit the fan...
> 
> You might have noticed that updates are getting slower, I wish I could say that it's going to change, but work has been insane and the only time I get to write anything is the weekend. I do appreciate all of your kind comments, they keep me going :)


	8. Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a little taken aback by the comments for the last chapter – I didn’t think people were going to be so surprised! But the reactions did make me laugh, so thanks guys ;) 
> 
> I chose Bard because he is the only one (aside Gandalf) who has any real interaction with Thranduil during the Hobbit films, so I felt he was the most feasible. I will try not to make him hideously OOC.

Nobody said anything for several long and uncomfortable moments. 

Bard was staring at Thranduil with wide (and somewhat frightened) eyes, as though worried Thranduil might throttle him with his bare hands, and the Elvenking stared resolutely at the ceiling, his face ghostly pale and jaw clenched so tightly Thorin was sure he could hear it grinding. 

Thorin’s own face must have been a real picture – an image fit for the old painting masters. The realisation that Bard was the father was not a pleasant one. He felt protective (for the wellbeing of Thranduil in particular, who looked almost sick with poorly disguised distress), as well as a tiny hint of possessiveness, like Thranduil and Legolas were with him now, and that Bard no longer deserved a place with them. 

Thorin knew it was irrational, but he couldn’t help but think he had been the one supporting Thranduil and helping with Legolas – he had been there for the birth. And yet, he wasn’t the father – only a poor substitute. He'd been foolish to think he could compare. 

Balin elbowed him none too subtly in the gut. 

“Welcome to Erebor,” said Thorin stiffly, to break what was a physical painful silence. 

Bard’s gaze snapped to him, and stayed there, without straying to Thranduil and Legolas for a moment. He looked as though he was struggling to speak. “Thanks for having me,” he said at last, with a flinted smile – his mouth moved, but the rest of his face was frozen, his eyes flashing with something Thorin could not identify. 

Thorin coughed and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for the delay in greeting you, we were not expecting you until tomorrow.” 

“Apologies, we made good time,” Bard replied, inhaling in a long breath and beginning to regain control of himself. “If I had known I would have slowed my journey – I didn’t know you had other guests.” 

Thranduil stirred at the mention, gathering himself in a blink of an eye, and suddenly he was no longer silent and distraught – his shoulders straightened, his jaw clicked, and he was the Elvenking again. “Evidently,” he drawled, acid leaking from every syllable. He clutched Legolas tighter to his breast, as though he could physically shield him from Bard’s presence – as though Bard would somehow not notice the babe was there. 

The man opened his mouth, looking as though he wished to say something but quickly thought better of it. Probably a sensible decision – Thranduil did not look as though he wished to be trifled with, and all the guards in Middle-Earth would be no help against an enraged Elvenking. Thorin was genuinely worried for Bard's safety. He couldn't have a lord or king murdered in his halls, regardless of the reasoning.

They descended into silence. 

Balin looked between them all in confusion. When nobody said anything, and looked steadfastly in other directions, he turned to Bard with a sweeping bow and ventured, “King Thorin would like to invite you to a feast tomorrow evening in honour of your arrival.”

Thorin wanted to do no such thing, but he hadn’t wanted to invite Thranduil to a welcoming feast either and it had not turned out as bad as he'd feared. So he simply nodded in agreement, distantly aware of the betrayed glare Thranduil was shooting at him. 

“Of course, that would be much appreciated,” said Bard, with an insincere smile. 

Thorin waved a hand in dismissal, and summoned his servants; he wanted nothing more than the conversation to end. “My attendants will escort you to your chambers,” he croaked, with a brittle quirk of the lips.

Bard nodded, turned, and marched away only fractionally quicker than necessary. 

Dimly, Thorin wondered whether Bard could feel Thranduil’s deadly glare in the back of his head. 

+++

“Why didn’t you tell me he was coming?” Thranduil cried, rounding on him as soon as the door swung shut behind them. He placed Legolas in the middle of the bed, gently, and turned to Thorin with a dangerous glint in his eyes. He looked like the deadly warrior Thorin had seen on the battlefield, coiled tight and poised for a fight. 

“I didn’t think you’d care!” Thorin exclaimed, with a helpless wave of his hands. He wasn’t sure how it had ended up being his problem – it technically had nothing to do with him. “How was I supposed to know he was the father of the baby? You were supposed to be gone by now!” 

“You have to get rid of him!”

“What? How am I supposed to do that?” Thorin cried, until Legolas gave a small snuffle of protest. He lowered his voice, but added vehemently, “He’s an invited guest!” 

Thranduil crossed his arms, challenging. “As am I, and I want you to get rid of him!” 

Thorin rolled his eyes. He knew Thranduil was angry, and rightfully so, but there was no need for the dramatics. While Thranduil could rant and rage all he liked, Thorin was supposed to be a generous host and an unbiased king. “And start another war? No, thank you,” he said.

“Then I’ll leave.” 

Thranduil turned, marched towards his closet, and retrieved an armful of elaborate and glittering gowns. In a flurry of silky fabric, he began to pile them upon the bed – mindful of a napping Legolas. Thranduil had obviously never packed anything himself before, because after a moment, he gave up attempting to fold his magnificent gowns and bundled them into a heap with a hiss of unrestrained fury. 

Thorin sighed and watched him struggle with exasperation. “You’re still healing – you shouldn’t be travelling,” he pointed out, as rationally as he could manage. In the past, arrogant and prideful, he might have snapped back – but he saw no benefit in prodding an already angry beast. He was learning when to pick his fights, as Balin was teaching him. “The trip today hurt you, I could tell.” 

Thranduil’s eyes were sharp, angry, but his posture was slumped and his movements were jagged. Whether he admitted it or not, he was tired and sore. “I don’t care,” he snapped. He inhaled deeply, as though to calm himself, and his next words were softer – sadder. “I can’t stay here with him. I don’t want him around Legolas.” 

“He is the father,” Thorin pointed out, needlessly. 

As much as he didn’t think Thranduil should welcome Bard with open arms, ultimately it wasn’t up to him. 

“Yes, the father who wants nothing to do with him!” Thranduil spat. He abandoned his packing and slumped onto the bed amidst his mountain of robes – pale and tense and breathing heavily.

“Maybe he’ll change his mind,” Thorin suggested, with a shrug. Despite their disagreements, he’d always believed Bard was a good and noble man – he didn’t know what had happened between him and Thranduil, but Bard was not deliberately cruel or callous. 

“He doesn’t deserve to be part of Legolas’ life,” Thranduil grumbled, but it was less passionate than before – quieter and without venom. He rubbed his eyes. He looked drained. “You can’t expect me to go to the feast with him tomorrow.” 

“No, of course not,” said Thorin. He would not be that cruel. “But I’ll have to go – considering I invited him.” By which he meant Balin had written the invitation, and he had signed it. 

Thranduil’s expression flickered, with something that looked strangely like betrayal, and he croaked, without blinking, “Yes, go, dine and drink with Bard – I’m sure you can laugh about me together.”

Thorin sighed, and edged closer – squeezing Thranduil’s arm in what he hoped was comfort, before he could stop and overthink the move. He was half expecting to be spurned, but Thranduil only slumped unconsciously closer. “Look, I know you’re upset, for good reason, but this isn’t my fault,” Thorin said gruffly. “It’s got nothing to do with me.” 

Thranduil laughed tonelessly, startled by the words, and pulled away from him. “Of course it hasn’t,” he conceded, staring unseeingly into the distance. “Why are you here, then, if it has nothing to do with you?” 

Thorin hesitated, for he did not have an answer to that – or he did, but he wasn’t sure Thranduil wanted to hear it. He said instead, “Do you want me to leave?”

Thranduil shook his head. “I want him to leave.” 

+++

The feast was an awkward affair for everyone concerned. 

Thorin was seated next to Bard, as was customary, and there was not enough ale in Middle-Earth to make the evening bearable. He tried hard to make conversation, what with Balin sat nearby, breathing down his neck – but all he could think of was Thranduil and Bard together. Thranduil had mentioned it had been nothing serious, although Thorin wondered if Bard was in agreement. He can’t have been that committed, if he had abandoned the child. 

He wanted to know; yet, he dreaded the answer. 

“King Thranduil sends his apologies for not making dinner,” said Thorin, lying through his teeth, because of course Thranduil had done no such thing. Still, he needed to start somewhere – it was either that or endure sitting in silence for the evening. “He’s – uh recently given birth and is not up to public engagements yet.” 

Bard paled slightly at the mention, but there was no other physical reaction. He drank a sip of wine, in an attempt to look casual. “Of course, of course,” he said breezily. “How is he? And the baby?” 

Thorin threw him a look out the corner of his eye, looking close for concern or interest, but unable to read Bard’s carefully nonchalant expression. “Both well,” he conceded, reluctantly. Bard made no reaction, of either pleasure or disappointment, and Thorin felt a flash of anger on Legolas’ behalf – did the man not care about his own kin at all? Against his better judgement, desperate for a reaction, he added, “No thanks to you.” 

Bard jumped as though he’d been cracked with a whip, and slopped his wine over the table. He turned to Thorin with an open mouth and cried, in undisguised surprise, “He told you?”

“Of course not!” Thorin hissed, realising he’d caught the attention of Balin, who was shooting him warning looks down the table. But it was too late – he had started now, the floodgates were open and there was no going back. “I’m not blind – I could see the looks on both of your faces. How could you do that to him?” 

Attendants fussed about the table, swarming like bees, desperately trying to mop up the wine. “With the greatest of respect,” said Bard, “but how is this any of your business?”

That was a good question; Thorin had a lot of suppressed feelings on the matter. 

“It is my business!” Thorin boomed, before he could check himself. “It’s my business because he gave birth alone in my kingdom. It’s my business because there’s been nobody else to help with the baby. And it’s my business because I’m the bloody king!”

Balin was staring at him in complete astonishment, his head in his hands. Bard, on the other hand, was flushed with feeling, his face contorting with a rainbow of emotion – surprise, anger, guilt and suffering. 

“I don’t know what Thranduil has told you,” he said, in a lowered voice, “but what happened was – it was unexpected. I already have a life, a family and a home.” He shifted uncomfortably, and his eyes were sad – hooded. “I have responsibilities. I couldn’t just – just up and leave to join him in Mirkwood like he wanted.”

Thorin scoffed. “So you abandoned your own babe?”

Bard’s mouth twisted. “It will be well cared for – Thranduil will make sure of that,” he replied, and he sounded confident in his words now, like he truly believed them. “It will be better off without me – an elf, like them. Immortal.” 

Thorin’s simmering anger was dissipating. While he didn’t agree with Bard’s actions, he understood the sentiment. Feeling marginally more generous, he grumbled, “It’s a ‘he’ – his name is Legolas.” 

Bard’s jaw jumped, and he asked, “Legolas?” 

“It means green leaf.” 

He smiled, and it was wide and genuine, his mouth crinkling at the corners – his mortal mouth, already touched by age. Legolas would probably outlive him by thousands of years. Thorin remembered Thranduil’s words: _One hundred years is a blink in the life of an elf._

“I know you think me terrible, but I only did what I thought was best,” said Bard, between long gulps of wine. “How could I ever be the true father to a baby from so far away and for such a brief period? Would he even remember me?” 

Thorin raised his brows, and asked, “Did you tell Thranduil this, or did your disappear without a word?” 

Bard said nothing. He drunk in silence for a moment, his expression pained and terse, before admitting, with a struggle: “I was afraid Thranduil would try to stop me – and if he did, I didn’t think I would have the strength to leave.” 

Thorin shrugged, feeling significantly calmer, now that he had let off some steam, and said, “You deserted him during pregnancy, the least you owe him is an explanation.” 

Bard laughed, but it was cold and without humour. “I don’t think he wants one,” he noted. “I don’t think Thranduil believes in excuses.”

+++

Instead of heading back to his own chambers, like he should have done (particularly after several goblets of ale), Thorin stumbled to Thranduil’s quarters at a slow and languid pace. He dismissed his guard, to preserve some of his dignity, only to stumble upon Tauriel, stood outside of Thranduil’s chambers. 

She sniggered at his uncouth arrival, but for once said nothing, and let him pass without complaint. 

When he struggled through the door, he found Thranduil on the other side, led out on the bed next to Legolas, curled up and silently weeping. His face was wet with tears. 

Thorin sobered in an instant; he squinted, checking twice that what he saw was not just a figment of his drunken imagination. But no, each time he looked, he could still see the Elvenking, ghostly white in the faint glow of candlelight and face contorted in pain. 

Thranduil glanced up upon his entrance, and quickly turned his face away, so Thorin could see nothing but the back of a golden head. But it was too late to hide - Thorin had already seen him. 

His shoulders shook.

“Are you ok?” Thorin asked, although the answer was obvious, because he had definitely not been trained for Elvenking tears. He shuffled closer, leaning over the side of the bed – and he was obviously still drunk – because he treaded a gentle head into Thranduil’s hair and started stroking. It was nothing like he had ever felt before - softer than the most exquisite of silks. 

Thranduil’s breathing hitched, and he croaked, stubbornly, “Yes.” 

Thorin sighed and argued, “You’re not.” 

There was a pause, before Thranduil conceded, “No, I’m not.” Quick to change the subject, he added, “How was the feast?” 

“Uncomfortable.” 

Thranduil turned his head, peering up at Thorin in the darkness, his eyes a glorious midnight blue, despite their redness, and quirked his lips at him humourlessly. Thorin moved his hand, from hair to skin, and stroked the sharp lines of his jaw and cheek. His skin was soft, but damp, and Thorin was sure his heart was beating so loudly – so strongly – that Thranduil could hear it.

The Elvenking choked slightly on his own tears, and whispered vehemently (as to not wake Legolas), “I don’t know why I’m upset – it’s pathetic. I shouldn’t be crying over that man.” 

“It’s natural – you’ve just given birth.”

Thranduil leaned into Thorin’s touch, peering up at him with a softened and slackened expression, and tugged the dwarf down to join him. Thorin went without complaint, for he hardly had the coordination to fight him, and without thinking, tucked an arm around Thranduil’s waist. They were silent, for a long while, as Thranduil began to calm – his breathing was evening out, and his face began to dry. Thorin rapidly approached sleep, feeling happy and content for reasons he could finally identity. This was where he wanted to be.

He felt as though he was dreaming – except the Elvenking had never cried in his dreams, for Thorin’s mind had not thought him capable. His thoughts were slow and sluggish, but Thorin understood enough to know that he did not like Thranduil crying, and that something fierce and protective was swelling in his chest. 

Until Thranduil ruined the moment, and exclaimed into the darkness, in his most disgusted voice, “You smell like ale.” 

Thorin's next thoughts were not quite so complimentary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe the response this is getting - it was only intended to be a short cracky thing! Thank you! 
> 
> Only a couple more chapters to go...


	9. Explanations

When Thorin awoke, he noticed two things: one was that his head was banging with the intensity of a thousand drums, and two was that he was definitely not in his own chambers. 

He felt a brief moment of panic, before he noticed a curtain of silvery hair, which was caught in his beard and mouth, and felt a jolt of realisation. Thranduil was curled up beside him, eyelashes fluttering in sleep (a strange sight, for Thorin had not been sure whether elves slept at all), the long lines of his legs threaded between Thorin’s ankles. Thorin’s hand was curled around a softened stomach.

Whereas Thorin was still fully clothed, hot and uncomfortable in layers of formal wear, Thranduil was only covered by the sheer material of his nightgown - it was gathered at his waist and bared his legs to the cool morning air. Thorin’s fingers twitched, eager to touch the naked expanse of skin, but he resisted. If Thorin touched the private planes of Thranduil’s body, it would be because Thranduil had allowed him to – not because he had stolen touches while the other was vulnerable and sleeping. 

In the brief moment of calmness, Thorin’s mind wandered to places he had never dared dwell upon before. Although Thorin had always known, objectively, that Thranduil was indeed a striking beauty, he had never allowed himself to indulge in the notion. Thranduil had been an enemy, and Thorin had thought of Thranduil’s splendour as nothing but deceit and illusion.

Now, he admired freely – from the slender curve of his ankles, to the pearly skin of his thighs, and the long flow of glossy hair. Thranduil was a creature of remarkable contrasts – full of light and dark, sharpness and softness. It was a pleasant sight indeed.

Thorin’s mind was still a web of confusion and uncharacteristic doubt, but he knew one thing: he wanted Thranduil for himself. 

The thought should have alarmed him, due to their complicated and often unpleasant past, but he felt nothing but relief to admit it, at last – even if it was only to himself. He mulled it over, for a time, wondering how he could act, until there was a rustle, and then soft breathless cries. 

Legolas was awake. 

Peering over Thranduil’s shoulder, where Legolas was placed on the bed (far from the edge), he could see a flurry of tiny fists. Legolas was restless; although he didn’t have the strength to shift himself yet, his arms and legs were flailing, and his face was twisting pathetically as he cried. 

Slipping quickly off the bed, and regaining his now dead arm from beneath Thranduil’s waist, Thorin hurried to the elfing and took him swiftly in his arms – not wishing to wake his father. Legolas quietened immediately, glad of the attention, and entwined tiny fingers in the braids of Thorin’s hair, burbling softly in what must have been an attempt at conversation. 

Thorin laughed breathlessly, nudging his nose into the softness of Legolas’s cheek, and bounced the babe gently, resting him against the curve of his shoulder. Legolas gurgled, attached his toothless mouth to Thorin’s neck, and slobbered all over his skin. 

Thorin groaned in affectionate despair, and raised his eyes from the babe – only to see Thranduil’s bright eyes open wide and staring at them in the darkness. A soft smile was tugging at his lips. 

“You’re good with him,” he noted, something warm in his voice – still rough with sleep. “He likes you.” 

Thorin scoffed and smiled. “Of course, he has good taste.” He tugged at one of Legolas’s tiny hands, and cooed (in a manner he would never admit to anyone), “Don’t you, babe?”

Legolas gurgled back at him. Thorin chose to believe it was a 'yes'. 

Thranduil arched a brow, and grumbled, with an amused glint in his eye, “That’s a matter of opinion.”

Thorin rolled his eyes, but did not rise to the bait. He shook his shoulder uncomfortably as he felt a dribble of spit stick his robes to the curve of his neck. “He’s drooling all over me,” he complained. 

Thranduil failed at suppressing his amusement – he only looked pleased at Thorin’s distress. “He’s hungry,” he said, slipping out of the bed, and padding towards them on naked feet. He peered over Thorin’s shoulder, at the baby, and pressed a swift kiss to his forehead. Legolas kicked excitedly – pleased to see his father. 

Thorin felt something warm and affectionate tug in his chest. 

He opened his mouth, taking the comfortable silence as an opportunity to finally examine what was growing between them – to put a name to what had happened the previous night – when the chamber door flung open, and Tauriel barrelled in, her reddened hair streaming behind her. 

Thorin suppressed a groan.

“My lord,” she cried breathlessly, with a bow so swift it was a strange flurry of motion. She did not so much as glance at Thorin. “Bard – he’s here to see you!” 

Thranduil froze in an instant. Thorin, still bouncing Legolas upon his chest, almost dropped the babe on the floor in surprise. He had vague recollections of speaking to Bard the previous evening – what could he have possibly have said? 

After only a brief moment of horrified shock, Thranduil recovered himself. “Send him away!” he hissed, glaring over Thorin’s shoulder. “I have no interest in anything that man has to say!”

Tauriel looked pained, as though she wanted to obey but could not. “I’ve tried, my lord!” she cried, her frustration in her failure as plain as day. “With your permission, I will remove him by force.” 

“No!” Thorin exclaimed, in alarm. “You are not starting a war in my mountain!” He turned to Thranduil, calmer, and for reasons utterly unknown, said, “Thranduil – perhaps you should at least hear him out.”

Thranduil’s eyes widened, and he was unable to hide a brief glimpse of betrayal. He recoiled as though he’d been struck, widening the space between them – just when Thorin believed they were closer than ever before. “How could you say that?” he hissed, voice low and dangerous. “Did you befriend him last night after all?”

Thorin rolled his eyes, and insisted, empathetically, “No. I just think you’ll regret it if you don’t. I’ve never taken you as a coward.” 

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, and Thorin could tell he recognised the challenge. “I’m not afraid of him,” he insisted, haughty and proud – nothing at all like the elf that had been tearful and vulnerable the night before. With a flick of his hand, he conceded, “Fine. Send him in.” 

Tauriel opened her mouth, astonished, looking for one moment like she might argue, before she turned on a heel and disappeared back through the door. 

Thranduil let out a breath, deflating, and hurried to get dressed, flinging on a burgundy robe and running his fingers distractedly through his hair. Thorin raised a brow. Thranduil looked unkept and still slackened with sleep – although Thorin realised, with a pang of longing, that Bard must have been no stranger to the sight. 

Feeling suddenly out of place, Thorin nudged at Legolas’ cheek with his nose – a subconscious request for comfort – and asked, “Do you want me to leave?”

“No!” cried Thranduil, whirling around in a flurry of silk to stare at him. He added, beseechingly, “Please, stay.”

Thorin could hardly refuse, since he’d asked so nicely – and besides, he wanted to hear what Bard had to say. 

They stared at each other for a long moment, words building on the tip of Thorin’s tongue, heavy and thick with meaning, when the door opened and Bard appeared, white and strained, in the threshold. 

He hesitated for only a moment, Thorin noted with respect, before sweeping in with a courteous bow. Thranduil nodded back, although his face was pinched with anger. 

“King Thranduil,” said Bard, without so much as glancing at the Elvenking; his eyes had found Legolas, perched against Thorin’s shoulder, and he was staring, utterly unabashed. “King Thorin, I did not expect to see you here.”

Thorin wanted to explain, to justify, but could think of no feasible excuse as to why he’d be in Thranduil’s chambers, early in the morning, caring for his son. As far as Bard was aware, he and Thranduil were still bitter enemies. 

Thorin said nothing, although he evidently looked guilty, because Bard was looking between them with understanding blossoming on his face. Thranduil stared back defiantly. 

“Are you two -?” 

Bard trailed off quickly, looking bemused, unable to finish the thought – and Thorin was ashamed to admit heat was travelling up his neck and across his cheeks. He opened his mouth to deny, which was technically the truth, when Thranduil spoke for him. 

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” he snapped, which served as confirmation rather than denial. Thorin glanced at him in surprise. 

Bard’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline, but there was no other physical reaction – Thorin was pleased to note he did not look jealous or angry. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to pry,” he replied, placating. 

Thranduil was not moved. He crossed his arms across his chest, glowering down from his superior height, and demanded, “What do you want?” 

Thorin was glad of Balin’s absence – Thranduil had evidently thrown all attempts at diplomacy out of the imaginary window. 

Bard, to his credit, did not appear deterred by Thranduil’s hostility – he was a brave man indeed. “It came to my attention that I owe you an explanation,” he explained. “In fact, I owe you a lot more than an explanation, but that’s all I can provide.” 

“I don’t want one,” said Thranduil, unable to disguise a note of bitterness. “You made your feelings clear when you disappeared without a trace.” 

Bard sighed, and for the first time his gaze flickered away. He looked ashamed. “I’m sorry. That was cowardly. There is no excuse.” 

He peered over at Legolas, his eyes bright, and curiosity plain, and edged closer, as though afraid that Thranduil might pounce upon him. But Thranduil said nothing, allowing the movement reluctantly, his lip curling in distaste. 

Taking the silence as consent, Thorin adjusted Legolas within his grip, so Bard could look upon his properly – his face lit up in gratification, affection shining in his eyes.

“How is he? Is he healthy?” he asked, running a finger across his cheek and into his golden hair. Legolas stared back at him, blinking, and waved his arms around in excitement, accidentally cuffing Thorin in the chin. 

Thranduil sighed. “Don’t pretend to care.” 

“I do care – I just – he’s better off with you,” said Bard, and he looked unhappy now – sad, as he gazed upon Legolas’s tiny face. “I know you’ll take care of him. I’m a mortal man – there’s no place for me in his life.” 

Thranduil said nothing, his gaze flickering away, down towards the floor. His eyelashes were dark against the paleness of his cheeks. 

“I wish I could,” Bard breathed, squeezing one of Legolas’s tiny fists, “but I – I already have a family who need me.” 

“I know,” said Thranduil tersely. He didn’t look angry anymore, only resigned.

Bard stepped away, creating distance between himself and the baby, and smiled at Thranduil, his eyes tinged with sadness. “He’s lovely – he looks like you,” he said, and there was something proud in his voice – and something longing. 

“Only in colouring.” 

“I know you will take good care of him,” Bard said earnestly. “I’m sorry I can’t be the father you want for him – or the one he deserves.” 

Thranduil nodded, but words had failed him – Thorin could see, from the flicker in his expression, that he was upset. He moved closer, automatically, in what he hoped was comfort, as Bard nodded in farewell. He took one last look at Legolas, his face contorting, and turned – he did not look back. 

Thranduil slipped his cool hand between Thorin’s roughened fingers, as they watched Bard disappear back through the door. 

+++

When Thorin emerged from Thranduil’s chambers, later that day, feeling overwrought with emotion, Tauriel was waiting for him. 

Thorin, wanting nothing more than to disappear into the darkness of his own chambers in silence, tried to edge swiftly around her. 

She blocked him. 

"Good morning, King Thorin," she said, suspiciously pleasant. Her hands were clasped behind her back and her hair was gleaming fiery red in the candlelight. 

"Morning," Thorin grumbled, with an exasperated sigh. 

With a curious cock of the head, she noted, innocently, “I noticed you stayed the night?” 

It wasn’t really a question, more of a statement of fact, but Thorin answered regardless. There was no point in lying. “Yes,” he confirmed.

"I won't pretend to know what's happening between you," she said, which made two of them - because Thorin didn't know either. "I have to trust that Lord Thranduil knows what he's doing." She didn't sound confident in Thranduil's judgement, but rallied in an instant, leaning forward, and whispered, threateningly, "But if you hurt him, I’ll kill you.” 

Thorin laughed, wildly, and nodded in understanding. With a cock of his brow, he leaned back towards her, and added, “And if you hurt Kili, I’ll kill you.” 

Tauriel’s face slackened in surprise, a faint blush blossoming over her cheeks, but she gathered herself quickly. With a soft smirk, to cover her embarrassment, she replied, “That only sounds fair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go - we're in the final stretch now, phew! I might put the rating up...? Hmm I'm undecided at the moment.
> 
> I’m not entirely sure how I ended up writing a Thorinduil Mpreg, or how it ended up being so long, but I've really enjoyed it! I can't believe I've almost finished it! ;)


	10. Goodbyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry that this took me an embarrassingly long time. I’ve been working weekends as well and have been writing like 50 words at a time. I’m still not happy with it, but I couldn’t wait any longer!

After Thorin’s realisation in Thranduil’s chambers that morning, he had taken the day to dwell on how to approach his newfound feelings for the Elvenking.

He wasn’t one to overthink matters, but courting Thranduil would take some degree of finesse – if he did not want to end up sporting a black eye – and he would need to approach it appropriately. If he was wrong, and what had been developing between them was nothing more than a figment of his overeager imagination, his kingdom could pay the price. Lavishing attention upon the Elvenking, where none was welcome, could be very dangerous indeed. 

He was quite sure Thranduil no longer hated him – either that, or he had more talents than Thorin had given him credit for – but there was a huge difference between not hating someone, and being in love with them. Although their relationship had changed, beyond measure, Thranduil had given him no formal invitation, and until he received such, Thorin couldn’t really be sure of his affections. Thranduil’s feelings were as elusive and cloaked as he was. 

Thranduil aside, there was also the small matter of his own council. If he was going to act on his desires, and proposition the great Elvenking, his advisors probably needed to know about it. (Just in case it went horribly wrong and ended in war, which was a disturbingly distinct possibility). 

Balin, besides being his council, was also a trusted friend – and Thorin did not relish the prospect of acting without his approval. He wanted to be honest – he saw no benefits of deceit. 

Thorin approached it the next morning over breakfast. Balin was feasting on breads and cheese besides Bilbo, washing it down with swills of Erebor’s finest ales. He looked happy enough, pink in the face and bloated with content. There was no finer moment.

He could think of no flowery words to soften the blow, and so, said, without preamble, “I wish to court Thranduil.” 

Balin choked on his ale and inhaled some up a nostril. He spluttered for several moments, before exclaiming, “Excuse me?” 

Bilbo smirked from behind his goblet, looking superior, as though Thorin’s announcement was no surprise to him at all. Thorin suspected, as with most things, he had not been entirely subtle in his growing affections for the Elvenking. 

“Are you jesting with me, laddie?” said Balin, once his ale had gone down the right way and speech was possible again.

Thorin stared, and said, in complete seriousness, “When have you ever known me to jest?”

Bilbo’s choked on a laugh, coughed, and had to receive a firm thump of the back to breathe again. Once he recovered himself, red in the face, he said generously, “I think you’re funny.”

Thorin chose to ignore him. He reiterated, “I’m going to court Thranduil,” to give Balin a chance to digest. He looked faintly ill. 

“May I ask why?” he asked, with genuine bafflement. 

“He – I…”

The words were on the tip of his tongue, his feelings for Thrandul bubbling beneath the surface, hot and frantic in his chest. Thranduil was beautiful, cunning, wise, hard, soft, full of radiance, and darkness; he was something bright and unexpected, someone who evoked strong feelings of passion, desire, and previously of hatred. Thorin couldn’t explain it. He did not have the words for what he felt. He said simply, “I want him.” 

Seemingly understanding his struggle, something shining in his eyes, Balin smiled – softly, with a thin veil of amusement and exasperation. Thorin felt like a dwarrow again, eager for approval and fearing disappointment.

“You’ve always been certain of your desires,” said Balin, with a hint of wryness in his voice, “even the ones that seemed ridiculous and foolhardy to everyone else.”

Thorin smiled, remembering those who had doubted him when he set out to reclaim Erebor – the ones who whispered how foolish and irresponsible his plans were. And yet, despite the challenges, he was king now. 

“I only want what’s best for you,” Balin continued, clasping at his arm in a way that sent tingles up Thorin’s spine. “You deserve happiness.” 

Thorin had no words to reply. He smiled, hoping that it conveyed his gratitude. 

“You don’t need our approval,” said Bilbo, munching through two blocks of cheese and dabbing his mouth with an embroidered handkerchief. “You would act without it.” 

Sometimes Thorin thought his friends knew him too well. He conceded, “Yes. But I would like it anyway.” 

“And so you have it,” said Balin. 

Thorin patted him thankfully on the back, and tucked into his breakfast with relish. He only had Thranduil to convince now – undoubtedly the most difficult of all. He tried not to think too much about the ways it could go wrong. 

“Try not to make a hash of it,” advised Bilbo, in a way that suggested he did not have much faith in Thorin’s abilities to approach Thranduil without disaster. “It’s preferable to have the Elvenking as a lover, than as an enemy.” 

Unfortunately, Fili and Kili chose that very moment to approach the dining table and appeared to hear every word. 

“You’re bedding the Elvenking?” exclaimed Kili, from behind them, sounding incredulous, and maybe a little impressed. He waggled his eyebrows when Thorin spun round to glare at him, an embarrassed flush ascending up his neck. 

“Very brave, Uncle,” agreed Fili.

“Good luck,” said Bilbo, solemnly. 

+++

When Thorin arrived at Thranduil’s chambers the next morning, instead of being greeted by Tauriel, guarding the door, Thorin was surprised to find the rest of Thranduil’s party bustling in and out, their arms laden with silks, jewellery and weaponry. It was an unusual sight, in Thranduil’s usually dormant chambers, and Thorin edged past them with a strange feeling of trepidation. 

He found Thranduil inside, coordinating the chaos, dressed in deep red robes and donning a circlet. Legolas was nowhere to be seen – he could only be with Tauriel, the only person (besides Thorin), Thranduil trusted with his precious son. 

“King Thranduil,” greeted Thorin, in a formal tone, because in the presence of company, etiquette dictated that he should. He added a bow as an afterthought. 

Thranduil quirked a brow and returned the gesture reluctantly. “King Thorin,” he said, with a similar air. 

“I was hoping for an audience,” said Thorin, awkwardly, unused to such a formal atmosphere between them. He coughed, and glanced about the room, adding, in his default commanding tone, “In private.” 

Thranduil, for a moment, looked as though he might refuse. There was a moment’s hesitation, strange in itself, and Thorin felt his nerves mingle with dread. Did Thranduil know why he wished to speak to him? Had he changed his mind about Bard? Had they reunited? 

As Thorin’s thoughts ran away with him, Thranduil turned to his attendants and commanded, “Leave us.” 

They filed out, silent and indistinguishable, and Thranduil snapped the door shut behind them. Once they were alone, he turned back to his belongings, as though reluctant to face Thorin head on. That did not bode well; Thranduil was not one to be easily quelled. 

“Are you upset still?” said Thorin, in bewilderment. “About Bard?” 

“I’m not upset,” said Thranduil sharply, in a manner that suggested he was very upset indeed; Thorin knew better than to challenge him on it. He waited instead, as Thranduil turned back to his wardrobe, unable to meet Thorin’s eyes, and starting sorting through selections of silk. It was an attendant’s job. After a brief pause, he said quietly, “The healer says I am fully healed – that I am fit for the journey back to Mirkwood.” 

Thorin had not been expecting that. In hindsight, it should have been obvious – the attendants had been packing. But so focused had he been on what he needed to say, far away in his own thoughts, that he had overlooked it. 

“When are you leaving?” he croaked, sounding distant, even to his own ears, his heart sinking slowly past his navel. 

“Tomorrow.” The word was soft and sad, but Thranduil gathered himself quickly. The Elvenking drew to his full height, and bowed his head in respect and appreciation: “I thank you for your hospitality.” 

Thorin blinked back at him, knowing he should probably say something appropriate in return but unable to summon the manners to do so. “Is that it?” he said instead – angry, at himself, for not doing anything sooner, and at Thranduil, for being so unfeeling about it. 

Thranduil’s heavy brows were furrowed. “What exactly are you expecting?” he asked, the tone tainted by unsaid feelings and bottled emotion. “I will be out of your life now – you can rule your kingdom in peace.” 

“I want you to stay.” 

“Why?” 

The sharpness in Thranduil’s voice disarmed him. Thorin opened his mouth to confess, to reel off the speech he had spent all night rehashing, but could only summon a shamefully feeble: “I – uh…”

“That’s what I thought,” said Thranduil, with an exasperated shake of the head. “Even now you cannot name what you feel for me. Perhaps it is best that I am leaving – it is unfair for you to offer your kindness, your attentions, if you only mean to tease.” 

“I’m not teasing,” said Thorin empathetically, offended, that after everything that had happened between them, that Thranduil might not believe his affection. “I – um…” 

“Yes?” Thranduil prompted. 

Thorin said nothing, struggling for a moment, with the words on the tip of his tongue, and Thranduil sighed – turning away with something like disappointment. His hair shimmered as he moved, falling like a curtain to disguise his profile. “See – you still cannot admit it,” he said, the words soft like silk, but laced with bitterness. “You can’t admit that you might have feelings for an elf.” 

Frustrated with himself, for showing such cowardice, and with Thranduil, for being so cold – he lurched forwards, in desperation, and clasped at Thranduil’s arm. He spun the elf back towards him, and opened his mouth to speak, but failed once more. The words (usually so easy for one so forthright) were stuck in his mouth, sticking to his tongue like glue. What if Thranduil refused him? What if he didn’t?

Once he uttered the words, there was no going back.

“Don’t strain yourself,” said Thranduil, seemingly sensing his struggle. After weeks of seeing Thranduil curled upon the bed, near naked and soft with affection, to be confronted by the Elvenking was a strike to the heart. He was caught off-guard by the unexpected hostility. “Legolas and I are leaving on the morrow anyway. I’ve been idle – I have duties to attend to. I was foolish to think that we might….” 

He trailed off, frustrated that he’d said more than he wished, revealed more than intended, but Thorin seized upon it – it had ignited a glimmer of hope. He tightened his grip on Thranduil’s arm, and pressed, “That we might what?” 

Thranduil’s eyes were glinting dangerously, and he said – challengingly, defiantly – what Thorin could not: “That we might be together.” 

That was all the confirmation Thorin needed. Words, useless in his mouth, were abandoned, and he pitched forwards, closing the space between them. His hand, before he knew it, was firm on the back of Thranduil’s head, bringing him towards him, and their lips met in a flurry of teeth and tongue.

It was a kiss of hot, wet desperation. He had imagined it would be gentle, the soft meeting of lips, but frustration had got the better of him – he plundered Thranduil’s mouth, clashing teeth and sharp swipes of tongue. Thranduil responded, just as fiercely, never to back down from a challenge, and Thorin tangled his fingers in rivers of silvery hair, pulling on glossy strands with his roughened hands. 

Once they were short of breath, panting against each other’s mouths, Thranduil pushed him away – the force of his arms strong and sure. His lips were wet and reddened, and Thorin felt like he was dying of thirst, eager for more. But Thranduil turned away, eyelashes fluttering and cheeks hot with desire. 

“Why do you have to do this now?” he croaked, his expression contorting with a myriad of anger, sadness, and longing. Thorin felt the flames roaring in his chest subdue. “You’ve had the opportunity for weeks, and only now that we’re leaving do you bring yourself to touch me.” 

Thranduil ran fingers through his hair, smoothing out the knots Thorin had created, and began to recollect himself. He was calmer, and colder, when he added, “You saw what happened with Bard – if that’s what your looking for – just a night for you to sate your lust before I leave for Mirkwood, never to be seen again – then you can forget it. I will not be fooled twice.” 

Thorin could not allow Thranduil to misunderstand; Bard had acted without explanation; Thorin would not make the same mistake. 

“That’s not why I’m doing this,” he said. “You and Legolas have become very important to me – I do not wish to see you leave.” 

Thranduil’s expression softened, but he did not relent: “I have no choice, you know that. I have a kingdom to rule – as do you.” 

There was a pause, as Thorin met Thranduil’s fierce gaze. It was now or never. 

“I hoped that we might continue to see each other,” said Thorin, and was surprised to find that he sounded calm – not at all a nervous or uncertain. “I hoped I might court you properly.”

Thranduil’s face slackened, his only physical response – the rest of him was poised, frozen in surprise.

Thorin blundered on. There was no going back now. “I’m attending the Spring Festivities in Mirkwood soon – I was wondering whether I might accompany you?” 

Thranduil blinked at him suspiciously for a painfully long time; it appeared that in all of his calculations, he had not predicted such an offer, and Thorin felt a jolt of satisfaction that he had regained the underhand. 

Attempting to keep his expression sincere, and not smug, as Thranduil studied him, Thorin could still taste the elf on his lips. He was hot and earthy. Now that he had committed to it, he did not regret his actions – how could he, when Thranduil was so enchanting?

“I would like that,” Thranduil replied at last, once he had decided Thorin was making no attempt to deceive him. He smiled then, a small quirk of the lips, but it was soft and coy – utterly unexpected – and an open invitation. 

Thorin’s heart was in his throat. 

“Can I kiss you again?” he croaked, knowing he was staring unabashedly at Thranduil’s lips but unable to stop himself. He’d already kissed goodbye to his dignity. 

Thranduil rolled his eyes, his posture uncoiling, into something loser and more relaxed, and flashed Thorin a toothy grin – it was fierce and dangerous – but Thorin enjoyed a thrill, and drifted closer. 

“Why don’t you try and find out?” said the Elvenking. 

Thorin eyed him with suspicion, feeling as though he was being coaxed into a trap, and asked, only partly serious, “You’re not going to attack me, are you?”

Thranduil laughed then, a delighted sound, and grabbed Thorin by the front of his robes. With a tug, he pulled Thorin towards him as he pitched backwards onto the bed, Thorin landing, snugly, braced between Thranduil’s legs. 

Needing no further encouragement, he joined their lips again – softer and with meaning. He was no good with words, but maybe his actions would say what he could not. 

Thranduil melted into the sheets beneath him, uncoiling, long and loose in Thorin’s arms. They mouthed at each other’s lips for a time, lost in sensation, until Thorin separated them, panting, and nudged his nose along the smooth skin of Thranduil’s jaw. He placed eager kisses there, following the arch of his neck and shoulders, before hot skin disappeared beneath the collar of his robes. 

Thranduil keened, arching his back upwards, to chase the roughness of Thorin’s lips and beard against bare collarbone, as Thorin’s hands, without warning, slipping under silk and found the vulnerable skin of Thranduil’s thighs. He had dreamt of their softness and warmth, but even his most vivid imaginings could not compare with reality; he stroked, reverent, parting Thranduil’s robes and exploring the skin with greedy hands. 

The Elvenking’s eyes widened, at finding that he was bare and vulnerable beneath Thorin’s touch, and Thorin froze, mindful of any signs of uncertainty. 

“Are you sure you want this?” 

Thorin thought he might die if the answer was no. Thranduil was bare beneath him, long and lithe, full of compact muscle and deceptive strength. The only softness was in his skin, the silk of his hair, and his stomach, which was still rounded from childbirth. 

Thorin was staring unapologetically, fearing his adoration was plain on his face as Thranduil smirked at him. 

“I trusted you during the birth of my child. I’ve trusted you with my baby. I can trust you with this,” admitted the Elvenking, curling a long leg around Thorin’s waist and digging fingers into the muscles of Thorin’s back. Then added, in a manner that was almost playful, eyes glinting, “Hopefully I won’t end up pregnant this time.” 

Thorin’s heart skipped at the thought. He couldn’t get too carried away. “Not yet anyway,” he agreed, with a wolfish smile, and Thranduil blinked at him in surprise before returning it. 

His eyes, up close, were bright and blue – not cold, as Thorin had always thought, but soft and gleaming with pleasure. Dark lashes fluttered at every stroke of Thorin’s hands against his skin, and splotches of red were high on his cheeks. 

Thorin could admit it now: Thranduil was a vision. 

And his for the taking.

+++

The night was over all too soon. 

Before they knew it, the kingdom was waking – the bustle of life and reality of daylight disturbing their new-found peace. Tauriel banged unrepentantly on Thranduil’s chamber door, jolting Thorin from deep sleep; he jumped apart from Thranduil, as though Tauriel could sense their closeness, unsticking bare skin and removing flyaway golden hairs from his mouth. 

The morning was slow and aimless, neither wanting to part from each other so quickly; Thranduil had retrieved Legolas from Tauriel, and spent the morning rocking him against his chest, singing softly in elvish, a sweet melody Thorin did not recognise, but could guess its meaning, watching them from where he was spread on the bed, sluggish and content. 

The feeling didn’t last long. A few hours later, he found himself stood on the dais in Erebor’s great hall, Bilbo and Balin on either side, looking down at the Elvenking and his party. 

Thranduil, looked exquisite, in robes of gleaming gold, Legolas clutched at his breast. He looked different than Thorin remembered him, when he had arrived at Erebor many weeks before, although he could not put his finger on why; maybe it was because Thorin saw him differently now. He was warmer, softer, and radiant in the darkness of Erebor’s halls. His gaze, sharp and knowing, never strayed from Thorin’s face. 

They had already said their goodbyes in private, intimately, as Thorin and Thranduil, but etiquette dictated that he should oversee their departure. Balin mostly spoke for him, and Thorin was glad – everything he wanted to say to Thranduil, he had said already, low and gruff, beneath the sheets. 

Once pleasantries were exchanged, and gifts given, Thorin (before Balin could move to stop him), descended from the dais, and without thinking, brought a hand to Thranduil’s pale cheek. 

His attendants jerked in surprise, coiled to attack, their fingers twitching against the string of their bows, but Tauriel held up a hand, in warning, and they froze. 

Thranduil blinked at him – he looked surprised, but not at all displeased. 

“I’m going to miss you,” said Thorin softly, abandoning all etiquette in his honesty. 

Thranduil could not quite contain a smile. He confessed, in a pained tone, as though the admittance was costing him great effort: “Likewise.” 

Thorin turned to Legolas then, a clasped a chubby fist in his hand. The babe, as always, pleased with the attention, flailed his feet and struck Thranduil in his stomach. Thranduil looked disgruntled and Thorin laughed. “Are you going to wave to me goodbye, Legolas?” he said lowly. The babe merely stared at him blankly, and batted his big blue eyes. “No? Maybe next time then. Be good for Ada.”

He kissed the babe briefly on a puffy cheek, and stepped back, while he still could. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he said. 

“Until then,” said Thranduil, with a bow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay I finally finished it! Thanks so much for all the lovely comments, I really appreciate all the interest in this story!
> 
> I will be doing a sequel of snapshots of their family time together, including some smut, so look out for that ☺

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this half asleep, and reading it back it doesn't flow as well as I'd like, but I have to post otherwise I'd never get anywhere.
> 
> I’ve just started back at work after the holidays (already so far behind I’m going backwards) so I’m not sure how updates are going to be, but it’s been ages since I’ve attempted a multi-chapter fic, I'm excited! Feel free to give me a kick…!!


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